What Comes, My Friend
by PoeticFancy
Summary: Our pasts are littered with mistakes, but our mistakes are only the lessons we have yet to learn. By choosing to let go of the past while holding onto what it has taught us, we are able to move forward with our lives...to be happy...to fall in love. Will probably be rated M as the story progresses.
1. Sister, Daughter, Bride-to-Be

_**STANDARD DISCLAIMER: Dragon Age and all of its locations, characters, etc are the intellectual property of Bioware and Electronic Arts. I don't own anything...except for Chalia. She's mine. All mine, you hear? *evil grin***_

_**Author's Note: **_

_Fans of the City Elf origin will notice that I definitely took some liberties here. In my story, Chalia Tabris (my character), Soris and Shianni are not cousins. They are siblings. I did this for a number of reasons, but most of it has to do with major plot points to come later in the story. Soris is pretty important here, much more-so than in the game. Just take my word for it, okay?_

_Also, I am playing up the elf/human prejudices in this story. There will be a lot of blatant racism, and let's just say that once Alistair is finally introduced (which is not going to happen anytime soon, I can promise you), it will not be all tickles and hugs. There will be romance, but I'm telling you now that this is not going to be one of those stories where the female protagonist falls all head over heels in love with the guy at first sight. I find that annoying. Oh, and there will be sex. Probably not a whole bunch of it, but it'll be there...sex and violence. The good stuff. So, if that bothers you, you're probably gearing up to read the wrong story, muchacho._

_This is my first fan fiction, so please be gentle with me. I will take any suggestions/constructive criticism you have to offer, as long as it is offered politely. If you stick with me, I hope I can take you on a pretty fun ride. I'd like to think that things will pan out like that, anyway. The plan is to update (ideally) once a week or (more realistically) once every two weeks on Tuesday nights. _

_Onward!_

* * *

**Chapter One**

**Sister, Daughter, Bride-to-Be**

"_**There are some who want to get married and others who don't. I have never had an impulse to go to the altar. I am a difficult person to lead."**_

_**-Greta Garbo**_

Chalia Tabris faltered atop the log on which she stood, the heavy, curved dagger she held wavering unsteadily as she fought to recover her balance…and failed miserably, plunging backwards into the cold creek. She let out a feral groan as the frigid water soaked through her dark brown breeches and into her smalls beneath.

"Dammit Soris! I'm over here! Stop your screaming!"

Chalia was fuming as she got to her feet. She scowled as her older brother's dark head appeared from out of a thick stand of trees nearby.

"What the hell are you doing out here…and why in the name of all that is holy are you wet? If you came out here for a bath, you could have taken one back at the house. The city guard turned the water back on inside the alienage this morning. If you had done your chores like you were supposed to, you probably would have noticed that," Soris said, noticeably out of breath from his trek through the unfamiliar woodlands.

Chalia rolled her eyes and crossed her arms over her upper body which was covered only by the gathered white material of her breast band. "Yes, because I often take a bath with my pants on." She straightened her spine and stuck out her chin. "If you must know- and apparently you must- I was practicing! You distracted me, and I fell in the water. Thanks a lot for that, by the way, idiot!"

"Honestly…put a damn shirt on, will you?" Soris spat. "Do you have any idea what could happen to you if a group of those depraved highwaymen came upon a half-dressed elven woman traipsing about in the woods? You know how those shem men are… You remember what happened to mother…don't you?"

"Of course I remember…I was there, saving your ass as usual since you were too stupidt to get yourself out of trouble! You _do_ remember that part, too, don't you?" Chalia's eyes narrowed, never straying from her brother's face as she knelt next to the creek and began fishing in the cold water for her dagger.

Soris at least had the good grace to look somewhat ashamed. She'd give him that, anyway.

Chalia felt the sharp blade of the dagger nick her palm as she combed her hand along the creek bed. "Damn it…" she cursed softly as she retrieved her weapon and slipped it into the sheath at her waist.

"Are you all right?" her brother all but mumbled, voice much softer than before.

"Fine. Just a scratch is all…" She flexed her hand a few times and watched a dark red bead of blood rise to the surface to trail across her flesh like a small red river flowing across the calloused plain of her skin. She wiped the blood off on her breeches and reached for her shirt which hung suspended from a nearby branch. Pulling the bright red garment over her head and down over her pale midsection, she smoothed the wrinkles out absentmindedly and fixed her brother with an annoyed green-eyed glare.

"So worried about ME attracting attention, and yet you were the one out here crashing through the woods like an ogre and screaming my name at the top of your lungs? Maker, you're stupid… I can't believe papa actually found a woman who was willing to marry you and have your children. Ugh."

"Yeah, well…" Soris shook his head and let out an exasperated sigh. "Look, about that…Papa sent me to find you."

Chalia wrinkled her nose at him irritably. "Oh, let me guess…because I left my chores for Shianni? I always have to do everything around that damned house, and Shianni bats her eyelashes at Papa and never has to lift a finger. It's not fair!"

Soris rolled his eyes at her. "Your groom Nelaros is here early. That's what I came to tell you. You're getting married tomorrow…finally."

"What?!" she screeched, eyes wide and frantic. "What the hell are you on about? Papa said six months. _SIX_!"

Soris lifted one shoulder in a dismissive shrug. "Yes, well, I guess he finally got tired of you always trying to talk him out of marrying you off. I think he actually handed over a dowry this time. Looks like this is really it, little sister. No more running. It's time for you to grow up and act like an adult."

Chalia's hands curled into fists at her sides and she stomped one booted foot in defiance. "I won't do it! _I won't_! He promised to give me more time! He _promised_!"

Sighing again, Soris moved forward and placed a hand on her shoulder. "You're going to have to tell _him_ that, Chalia. You know I can't do anything about it." The corner of his mouth quirked up in a teasing smile. "Besides, marriage isn't all bad. And I've seen him, this Nelaros." Soris batted his eyelashes at her. "He's no Tobin, of course, but all the girls in the alienage are saying he's positively dreamy. You are _soooo_ lucky!"

Chalia glared. "Drop dead, will you?"

Her brother grinned down at her. "If looks could kill, little sister, I'm sure I would have already done so by now."

Tobin. Ugh…now that was a sore spot, and something she was not in the mood to dwell on. Soris knew how to bait her, it was true, but she didn't have to fall for it this time.

Chalia shoved past him and stalked back toward the city, back to the wall with the convenient elf-sized hole at its base that she sneaked through as often as she possibly could…to get out, to get away from the over-crowded squalor of the alienage, the smallest and dirtest corner of the very human city of Denerim where her people were packed away like rats, like garbage.

Soris hurried after, his lanky and uncoordinated body stumbling noisily through the underbrush at her back. Sometimes Chalia could not believe she shared blood with him. He was so…so…clumsy and foolish and…infuriating. But she loved him. Maker, damn it all, she loved her older brother like no one else. He had been there with her when Mama had died, curled with her in the bushes by the side of the road as they both cried in one another's arms, utterly alone and lost until the dwarven merchant caravan had come along and given them passage back to Denerim. But…she didn't want to think about any of that now, either.

She had other, more pressing troubles at the moment- like the looming threat of an arranged marriage to a man she did not know from a place she knew next to nothing about…nothing except that the alienage in Highever was supposedly much worse than the one in Denerim. Or maybe the elders in the Denerim alienage only said that to make themselves feel superior. She didn't know. What she did know was that she did not, under any circumstances, want to get married.

Marriage would mean that she was stuck. Stuck in this disgusting city where she would be seen for the rest of her life as just another elven woman who was good for nothing except serving or whoring. What else was there, right? To humans, one dirt poor "knife-eared" female wasn't worth very much unless she could clean, cook or spread her legs for whatever coin they felt generous enough to toss her way.

* * *

"Chalia, _wait_!"

She could barely hear Soris anymore- his breathless pleas for her to slow her pace- and when she_ did_ hear him, she ignored him and kept her eyes fixed firmly in front of her. The squalor of the alienage surrounded her, the pall of despair that hovered over all of it a palpable thing that licked her skin with its grimy tongue.

High overhead, the branches of the great Vhenadhal creaked as they swayed with the gentle push and pull of the wind. That tree...that ancient thing. Who knew how much it had seen or even how much it could see now? It rose high above the stagnant heart of the alienage, its limbs twisting toward the sun, though the humans had hacked the heavy branches away from the walls, probably as a way to keep the elven "thieves" from sneaking into the market at night.

Chalia's mother had told her every alienage had a Vhendhal. It was a symbol of hope, of Arlathan, the ancient homeland of the elves. But that was before the humans came. Long before the humans had swarmed into the great elven cities and dales and enslaved the People, had crushed their spirits. Now, they were free, in word if not in deed, but what difference did it make? They were still subjugated, trapped behind barriers of heavy stone...caged like animals. Trapped.

Chalia paused a moment outside the modest home she shared with her family, her hand trembling on the latch. What could she say? She had had this talk...no, this _argument_...with her father countless times before. Ever since she had come of age, Cyrion had employed a matchmaker whose task was to find her a suitable husband, a man whom she would be expected to serve and obey without question...a man with whom she would be expected to _breed_.

Her free hand balled into a tight fist at her side, she snarled and shoved open the door.

"Papa, we need to..." Her eyes widened in surprise.

Her father was seated at the dinner table across from an older elven couple whose animated conversation had ceased in the wake of her fiery entrance.

Blinking, the woman regained her composure and a delighted smile spread across her face. "Well, there she is now, the beautiful bride! Oh, Gethon, just _look_ at her! She's the spitting image of Adaia, isn't she?"

The man seated at her side- Gethon, Chalia assumed- nodded and eyed her critically. "Without a doubt, my dear. Now that is the result of fine breeding if ever I've seen it! Just look at that _nose_...a fine nose like that is no accident. Adaia always did have such a perfect little nose..."

Gethon's "dear" cast a withering look in his direction, her eyes dangerously narrowed. The woman, however, realized rather quickly that Chalia was watching her, and the suspiciously bright smile slid back into place as easily as a sword into its hilt.

"Come now, _darling_. You shouldn't speak about the girl as though you were appraising a mare!"

The woman pushed her chair back from the table and stood, her hands fluttering in the air as she spoke. "And where are our manners?"

She caught Chalia's hands in hers and squeezed lightly. "I'm Dilwyn and this," she gestured vaguely, "is my husband, Gethon. We've come from Highever...friends of your mother's, you see...to see you marry the handsome young man from our alienage. Nelaros is quite the prize, you know. In fact, we _may_ have mentioned that to your father's matchmaker a time or two!" Dilwyn nudged her elbow in Chalia's ribs with a playful grin. "You can thank us later. The two of you will have gorgeous children, I'm sure. And lots of them! Just wait until you see your handsome groom- I'm sure you won't be able to help-"

Gethon cleared his throat as he appeared at his wife's side and took her arm. "Now,_ dear_, I'm sure the young lady doesn't want to hear us babbling on. We should go. Valendrian will be waiting."

Dilwyn turned her head just enough so that her husband could not see as she rolled her eyes in agitation. "Of course, _darling_, you're right as usual."

Chalia's expression was pleading as she searched out her father's tired eyes across the room.

Cyrion Tabris made his way to his daughter, brushing her behind him with one hand as he held open the door to the house with the other. "Well, as I said, it was good for my old soul to see the two of you again...and after all these years!" Cyrion's smile did not quite reach his eyes, but neither Dilwyn nor Gethon seemed to notice. "Adaia would be pleased."

Dilwyn rose up on the balls of her feet to place a chaste kiss on Cyrion's cheek. Gethon smirked as though the whole display was some secret joke, and Chalia saw her father's mouth twitch while Dilwyn smiled sweetly and batted her eyelashes.

"Our pleasure, Cyrion," Dilwyn purred. "Truly, our _pleasure_."

Cyrion firmly closed the door and leaned on it as he raised a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose, his eyes squeezed shut.

"Papa...?" Chalia ventured, her voice feather-soft and cautious in the empty quiet of the tiny house.

Cyrion shook his head and opened his eyes with a deep sigh. "What are you wearing?" he asked in rough voice.

"What am I...what...?" Chalia lifted her arms and looked down at herself. Her boots were muddy, her breeches wet and her shirt hung open and unlaced at the top so that what little cleavage she had was visible.

"For Maker's sake, I didn't scrimp and save my coin all those years so that you could go around looking like a street urchin."

"But Papa...I need to speak to you about..."

Cyrion waved his hand dismissively."And where is Soris? It's nearly dinner time, and Valora will need his help with the children."

Just then, the door to the house—the door Cyrion was leaning against- flew open and sent the gray-haired elf sprawling onto the floor with a pained grunt.

"Chalia, you-!" Soris's hand flew to his mouth as his eyes grew wide with blatant terror. "Oh no...oh, Papa, I'm sorry, I didn't-"

Cyrion held up a hand to silence his son. He glared, a sharp hiss of pain escaping through his lips as he pulled himself to his feet, one hand pressed to the small of his back.

"Just go see to your family, please. I need to have a word with your sister."

"Y-yes, Papa. Of course..." Soris gave his younger sister a small shrug as he scuttled by her on his way out of the room.

The anger Chalia had felt before had begun to dissipate, and she finally allowed herself to feel the cold fear that was creeping into her gut like a merciless, clawed thing, tearing apart her resolve.

Cyrion's voice was firm, his eyes hard as he crossed his arms over his chest."Before you say one, single word, you must know that there will be no negotiating and no arguments. There is going to be a wedding tomorrow, and you will be the bride. I've already paid the dowry to the groom's family. You will honor tradition as you should. There is nothing to discuss, do you understand me?"

Chalia's throat worked as she struggled to swallow the lump that had grown large and immovable as an icy block of stone. "I...I don't...I don't..."

Her father's eyes softened just a touch as he watched tears gather like storm clouds in his daughter's eyes. He uncrossed his arms and reached out to lay his hands on Chalia's shoulders and give them both a gentle squeeze. "My little girl...This is the last day I'll be able to call you that."

Chalia averted her eyes, but Cyrion placed two fingers under his daughter's chin and tilted her face back so she would look at him. "I know how you must hate me for this, but I only want what is best for you...as I do for all of my children. But I fear for you...especially for you...so much..."

Chalia blinked as her father released her and took a step back. For a moment he just...looked at her, and his face was filled with such sadness that her heart ached a little. She hadn't seen him look so sad since Mama had died. For the first time, Chalia really saw her father, the lines and dark circles under his eyes, the gray shock of hair falling to his shoulders, his skinny body that had once seemed so unbreakable to her. For the first time, he looked...old. Old and tired and sad and...helpless.

"You are so much like your mother." Cyrion's eyes began to shimmer with the only the very suggestion of tears in the fading light. "It's not just your nose or your eyes or your hair...it's..._everything _about you. You're stubborn and smart-mouthed and fearless, and...I just don't know what to _do_ with you. I never have..."

_Fearless? He thinks I'm fearless?_

"I let you have your knives and your martial training...your crazy notions. I let you have your freedom for as long as was possible, Chalia...but I have to know that you'll have someone, a good husband, to take care of you when I'm no longer...able. Soris has his wife and his own family to worry about. Shianni is...eager to be a wife once she's old enough. I want...I _need_ to know that you'll be okay. Nelaros is a good man, I promise you..."

Chalia threaded the fingers of both hands together in front of her to keep them from shaking as she absorbed her father's unexpected confession. Of all the things she had thought he would say...that he was ashamed of her behavior...that she was ungrateful or selfish or childish...there was none of it, and not a trace of anger or disappointment in his voice, which was tinged only with that pervading sadness. His words were thick with it, and they weighed heavily on her racing heart.

Her voice struggled out past her trembling lips, barely a whisper. "I can take care of myself, Papa."

Cyrion shook his head, tired laughter rumbling in his chest. "I know you can, my girl. But...so could your mother. She chose to save you and Soris, and it was the right choice...I'm not bitter or regretful about that, so please don't think that..."

He paused. "What I mean is... I should have been there to protect her, to help her, but I wasn't. I should have talked her into staying in the alienage instead of...Maker only knows what she was thinking, that woman..."

His voice shook as he spoke, a single tear blazing a trail down the hill of his ruddy cheek. "I lost Adaia. I can't lose _you_, too. I _won't _lose you... I...took the liberty of not mentioning your...hobbies...to the matchmaker. I want you to forget about your swordplay and whatever else it is that you get up to when you sneak off into the woods."

Chalia's head snapped up in surprise.

Cyrion laughed again, his eyes still soft and sad as before. "I'm not as oblivious as you seem to believe, my girl. I'm sorry for all of this, I truly am, but it is for the best. This is not a punishment. Just know that...that I love you."

With that, Chalia watched her father turn and retreat up the stairs. Probably to his room, she thought, to look at his portraits. Portraits he had painted of his young family just after Shianni was born- portraits which showed Chalia, Soris and their mother laughing and smiling as the two older children took turns holding their new baby sister.

Her father never painted anymore.

"Oh Chalia, there you are!" Shianni's voice rang out through the quiet front room bright as a bell as she bounded down the stairs, wearing a wide smile. Chalia let her little sister wrap her arms around her neck and pull her into a hug. Maybe Shianni never did her fair share of chores and was always getting her way with their father, but Chalia loved her and her infectious, bubbly laughter with all her heart.

"_Shianni is...eager to be a wife once she's old enough."_

Any eligible elven man would jump at the chance to court Shianni, it was true. She was sixteen and pretty, her hair still worn short, tiny braids framing her young face. And still a virgin, as far as Chalia knew.

Oh, Maker's mercy...of course, Shianni was a virgin. She was the perfect, obedient daughter, saving herself and her virtue for her future husband on her wedding night.

Her skill with a sword was not the only secret Chalia would have to keep from her future husband until after the vows had been exchanged. _Ugh. Better not to think about that now._

"Have you met your groom yet?" Shianni asked with an impish grin. "He's handsome!"


	2. Bones and Blood

_**STANDARD DISCLAIMER: Dragon Age and all of its locations, characters, etc are the intellectual property of Bioware and Electronic Arts. I don't own anything...except for Chalia. She's mine. All mine, you hear? *evil grin***_

_**Author's Note: **_

_First thing's first, thank you SO much to those who reviewed the first chapter! I'm glad you are enjoying the story so far, even if we're only some 3k+ words in. I hope I can do this thing justice, and give you guys- and Chalia- the story you (and she) deserve!_

_There are so many scenes that I am just dying to write. I have them all up in my little head-box, but in order to get there, we have to get out of the alienage at some point. This is the reason for two updates on two consecutive days. Annnd, we're still not there yet. At some point, Chalia may even meet her groom. I'm thinking chapter 3. XD_

_Onward!_

* * *

**Chapter 2**

**Bones and Blood**

**Fate is like a strange, unpopular restaurant, filled with odd waiters who bring you things you never asked for and don't always like. ~Lemony Snicket **

The alienage was an eerie sight to behold in the hours just before dawn began to pink the sky. It was never a bright place, exactly, the walls being so high that they kept most of the light out on even the sunniest days. To stave off the darkness, gas lamps were lit nightly and hung from iron posts at odd intervals throughout the alienage, the bulk of which surrounded the base of the great tree and lined

the cracked stone walkway just in front of Alarith's store. Dilapidated houses and clusters of small apartments sagged like sleeping beasts in the long, twisted shadows cast by the play of flickering lamplight through the branches of the Vhenadhal.

It had rained at some point during the night, and the cobblestones gleamed. Where the cobbles ended and the patchy grass began, Chalia knew that with the number of elves who would be soon be gathered to witness her vows of matrimony, there would be mud. Lots of it. But that was okay. At least something about this day would match her mood.

Bales of hay, hauled into the alienage from Maker knew where, were scattered here and there along the walkways. On top of each were arranged various symbols of the fall season- pumpkins, corn, baskets of apples, bunches of yellow flowers, the name of which she couldn't remember. All she could recall was Valora having said something at dinner about a yellow bouquet...something about weaving flowers into Chalia's hair before the ceremony.

She wondered if Valendrian had moved up the date of her wedding to coincide with the harvest season. Perhaps it had something to do with some rite or tradition that dated back to the days of Arlathan. The Harhen was always doing things like that, trying to weave the old traditions in with those that were relatively new in hopes that he could remind the residents of his alienage where they truly came from...what it meant to be an elf.

_And what the hell does it mean, anyway?_ Chalia wondered. _A life of poverty? Sure...one big party._

The rain had put a wet chill into the air, and Chalia shivered, dressed as she was in only her pale blue nightgown, slippers and a thin white robe. She had been awakened from a dreamless sleep by...something, some odd noise. And then she'd heard it again. The gentle rocking of a bed, the quiet giggles and soft moans from above.

_Ugh...now? Really?_

Maker damn her brother and Valora. With the way the two of them carried on, it was no wonder they had produced three children in such a short time of being married. To think, he hadn't even wanted to marry that mousy girl in the first place.

_Oh no...no no no. That train of thought...entirely unhelpful..._

So, she had slipped quietly from her bed, from the tiny room she shared with Shianni and down the stairs. Even there, she could still hear it...their lovemaking. Or whatever it was. _Gross..._

She found peace outside, in the chilly darkness of the morning while most of the alienage still slumbered. Out here, she could think.

What she really wanted was to escape through the hole in the wall, into the calming embrace of the forest. But it was too dark, the trees too thick, the paths too disorienting. She'd be lost out there...or worse. For a moment, she thought of the wild elves who still roamed the forests, the Dalish. What must it be like to wake up under the sky, the wild sky thick with stars?

Chalia looked up, but there was nothing to see. Nothing but branches and an infinite blackness. It had been so long since she had seen the stars. In fact, her mother had shown them to her on one of their treks into the countryside that lay beyond the walls of the Denerim. It was her mother who had instructed her to close her eyes and silently make a wish as a point of white light streaked across the sky like a bolt of lightning.

Whatever she had wished for...she couldn't remember. She was certain it had been something childish, frivolous and unimportant.

What would she wish for now? She didn't know. Maybe she'd wish to live in the forest like the wild elves, to be one of the Dalish.

"Since when are you up this early?"

Startled out of her thoughts by the voice which rose unexpectedly out of the morning quiet, Chalia jumped and spun around to find her friend Nessa with hands on hips, a mischievous grin on her face.

One corner of Chalia's mouth quirked up in a lopsided smile. Nessa, who was usually the very picture of what a proper young elven woman should be, looked as though she had just been tumbled rough and kicked out of bed. Her red hair, normally styled and brushed until it shone, was pulled back into a frizzy, wild knot at the back of her neck. She was bundled in an oversized robe, her tiny body lost inside the thick layers of fabric. It was an amusing sight to see this early in the morning, to be sure.

"Running away?" Nessa asked with a giggle.

"Hardly," Chalia said, shaking her head. "I just...needed to do some thinking is all."

Nessa laughed outright this time. "You're always thinking. I hope your handsome husband-to-be is equipped to deal with his broody betrothed."

Chalia rolled her eyes. "Firstly...shut _up_. And secondly- why does _everyone_ feel the need to tell me how handsome Nelaros is? This really doesn't bode well, you know."

"Well, I'd marry him," Nessa said, quirking a thin, red eyebrow.

"I'll tell you what- You marry him, and I will live vicariously through you!"

Nessa gave a small shake of her head. "Somehow, I don't think your father would like that plan."

Chalia shrugged. "Yeah, me neither."

With a small sigh, Nessa crossed her arms over her chest and leaned tiredly against one of the iron poles. The gas lamp atop it swayed, bathing Nessa's face in ruddy light.

"It's funny that I ran into you out here this morning, actually. I just came out to feed the dogs, and I was going to try to catch up with you later- you know, before the wedding, but..." She seemed to realize she was babbling and took a deep, shaky breath. "I...need to tell you something," she said in a soft voice. She regarded Chalia warily from the corner of her eye. "You're not going to like it. But I can't tell my parents just yet. And...I need someone to talk to. Someone I trust."

"You_ do_ realize how ominous that sounds, don't you?" Chalia asked, doing her best to keep her tone light.

"I'm going to have a child." Nessa's words came out in a rush, her eyes lowered and trained on the cobbles under her feet.

Chalia blinked in surprise. "You...what?"

Nessa was quiet, eyes still on the ground. Then Chalia started to laugh and Nessa's head snapped up, her eyes narrowed. "It's not funny!"

"I'm sorry..." Chalia blanched, composing herself. Her forehead wrinkled in thought as guilt flooded her face. "I really thought you were joking. I mean...I just didn't think..."

Nessa buried her face in her hands and groaned. When her hands fell, her cheeks were wet with tears. "I'm not joking, Chalia. And it's worse than that. I don't even know how to tell you..."

Chalia put an arm around her friend's thin shoulders and pulled her close, the bulk of Nessa's robe making the gesture seem awkward. "Just tell me, Ness," she pressed. "We've been friends since we were in diapers, for Maker's sake. You can tell me anything."

Nessa's head fell back against the iron pole, her eyes trained overhead as if to search the branches of the

Vhenadahl for the words she needed. Her breath escaped through her quivering mouth in little white puffs, and after several long moments, she met Chalia's eyes and began to cry in earnest.

"The father...he's..."

Chalia gave her a gentle squeeze. "He's what, Ness...?

"He's human, okay?! He's a human! I slept with a sodding shem!" Nessa pushed Chalia away from her and collapsed into a heap on the wet cobbles, her face buried in her hands as she sobbed, her gasps for breath harsh and scraping.

"You...how...how could you do that?" The words escaped Chalia's mouth before she could stop them, unable to keep the sudden flare of anger she felt from coloring her voice and her words with venom. "You _know_ better, Ness! How _could_ you?"

Nessa's sobs grew louder, her small body shaking in the confines of her heavy robe which had fallen open as she rocked back and forth on her knees. "I _know_...I _know_! I didn't think... He said he _loved _me!"

Chalia knelt down in front of her friend, her hands grasping the front of Nessa's robe roughly in an attempt to hold her still. "Humans don't love elves! We're toys or servants to them, nothing else...and you _know_ that! What were you_ thinking_?"

Nessa shoved her away with surprising force, and Chalia stumbled backwards into the patchy grass and the mud. "You're not telling me anything I don't already know, Chalia! It was stupid and foolish and...I know all of that. I just...I thought he was different...not like the others...somehow..." she finished lamely.

Chalia took a deep breath and stood up, brushing at the mud and the grass stuck to her backside. "I'm sorry, Ness. I really am. I just...don't know what to say. I wish I did."

Nessa got to her feet slowly, the robe hanging open wide enough that Chalia could see the beginnings of a rounded belly beginning to push against the thin fabric of her nightgown. When Nessa noticed where Chalia's eyes lingered, she yanked the robe closed around her middle and tied it shut.

"I'm just...going to go now," she said, her voice little more than a broken whisper. "I'll see you at the wedding, okay?"

"Ness... Nessa, _wait_!" Chalia started after her friend, but the red-headed elf disappeared into the shadows surrounding the cluster of apartments where she lived with her parents. A door creaked open and slammed in quick succession. Then, just like that, it was quiet again and Chalia was alone. She could hear droplets of rain falling through the branches of the Vhenadahl like an army of tiny heartbeats.

Her own heart pounded heavily in her chest.

How could she have been so cruel? Nessa had trusted her, and she'd done nothing but made her feel worse.

_Damn it._

Behind her, someone coughed.

Chalia spun around and searched the darkness, but she couldn't see anyone. "Who's there?"

A deep voice, dry and creaking as the tree branches overhead, answered her. "It's just me, child. Calm yourself."

Chalia felt herself relax. It was just One-Ear, the old drunk. She wondered how long he had been there, how much he had heard.

As he moved into the light, Chalia couldn't help but grimace. Every time she saw him, her reaction was the same. The shock never dulled. He was nothing but bones and a thin sheet of skin swaddled in ragged, dirty clothes that were far too large for him. His eyes were bloodshot, his hair a wild gray mass that stuck out at odd angles and made him appear almost feral. His lips were thin and cracked, several of his teeth missing or black with rot. But all of that was reasonable enough. There were plenty of homeless elves in Denerim as a whole, not just in the alienage, and they all had that filthy and slightly wild look about them. No, what had always frightened her the most about One-Ear was the angry gash that clawed its way up one side of his head where his left ear should have been, where the skin had been shredded, possibly chewed, and looked almost stitched back together by the hands of a madman.

Tobin had often referred to One-Ear as "the half elf." He'd said it cruelly, hatefully, as though he were angry at the old drunk for somehow allowing himself to be disfigured. Chalia was sure that the missing ear was not intentional. She'd asked the old man about it before and had never received a clear answer, just that he had "lost it in the war," whatever that meant. The Rebellion, she supposed, but it didn't matter. One-Ear had no home, no family...nothing. He was just a ghost who roamed the alienage and, on his better days, the Denerim marketplace, begging for coins or scraps.

The man made her uneasy, but Chalia had always felt sorry for him. She brought him food sometimes, something Soris used to scold her for. He'd said she was allowing him to keep living in the gutter as he did. After awhile, he'd stopped saying anything about it all...had even started slipping One-Ear some food, himself.

"Your pretty friend seemed quite distressed, yes?" One-Ear mused as he settled himself at the base of the iron post where, moments before, Nessa had knelt sobbing. He reached into the folds of his dirty shirt and pulled out a black pouch.

Chalia nodded, wrinkling her nose as the old man held the pouch out to her.

"Don't worry there, girl. It's none of my damn business. I well know that." He grinned, and his rotten teeth appeared even more grotesque than usual in the flickering red lamplight. One-Ear bounced the pouch up and down on his outstretched palm. "Go on, take it now, child. Don't be shy."

Chalia took the pouch, holding it cautiously between two fingers. "What...is it for?"

Instead of answering her, he cracked his hand down on the cobblestones in front of him. "Sit!"

"But..."

One-Ear put a finger to his lips and made a shuuushing sound. "I said sit, girl. I know that Tabris man raised you to respect your elders, so you do as I say." Again, he grinned.

Though unsettled, Chalia sat cross-legged on the ground, One-Ear's black pouch clutched in one hand.

He guffawed loudly. "Good, good! Now you open up that pouch and spill those bones in there on the ground."

"Bones?" Chalia's asked, her eyes widening slightly.

One-Ear shook his head, laughter rumbling deep in his chest. "Just chicken bones, child. Don't go getting any funny notions about old One-Ear."

Chalia let out a nervous laugh and loosened the pouch's flimsy drawstring. Without ceremony, she turned the pouch upside down in her hand and shook what indeed looked like a handful of yellowed bones onto the cobbles in front of her then tossed the pouch back to the old man when he held his hand out to her.

One-Ear leaned forward, poking at the pile of scattered bones in front of him with one long-nailed finger. He hemmed and hawed, mumbling incoherently as he did so. Until finally...

"You better keep your wits about you, girl." The old man caught Chalia's gaze and held it, his bloodshot eyes fixing on her like a snake on a mouse.

"What...what do you mean?" Chalia had been unsettled before, it was true. In fact, One-Ear had always unsettled her...not just with his appearance but with his odd, erratic behavior. She'd heard rumors about him luring girls into the alleys of the marketplace, about the things he did to them. She didn't think it was true. He'd never hurt her...never even made an improper gesture or advance. But the way he was looking at her now made the fine hairs on the back of her neck stand on end.

One-Ear's tongue crept out and swept across his lips. A thin thread of drool hung from his chin as he stared at her with a dark, naked hunger on his withered face.

"There's a storm coming, girl. A darkness the likes of which you can't even begin to imagine." The old man shook his head and, with a flick of his finger, sent a bone fragment flying into Chalia's lap.

She didn't move. She couldn't. Her head suddenly felt foggy. She was tired...so tired...and she didn't know why.

"There won't be any wedding. Before the day is over, that pretty white dress of yours will be covered in blood, and before the sun sets seven days from now, you'll be drinking it."

She heard the words, but they didn't make any sense to her. She was fighting just to keep her eyes open.

One-Ear's gnarled hand caressed her cheek, and she found that...somewhere in the confines of her own mind...she was surprised that she wasn't pulling away. She knew she should get away from here...away from him, but...that just didn't seem to matter.

"You're a pretty thing...smart, too. You've always been good to old One-Ear. You've got a good heart. You don't let any of them go and ruin that, you hear me, girl?"

"I..." Chalia heard him. Or at least she thought she heard him. _Maybe this was all a dream?_

_Maybe this was..._

"Chalia, what are you doing out here? You're freezing!" Soris...he was here? In her dream? But...

"Huh? Soris...what...?" Chalia lifted a hand to rub her eyes as they fluttered open and felt something digging hard into the flesh of her palm.

Soris grabbed her by the arm and yanked her to her feet, unmoved by her yelp of protest. He half-carried/half-dragged her into the house and sat her down on the hearth where a fire was already blazing. "You didn't answer my question," he pressed as he wrapped a blanket around her shoulders. "What were you doing outside?"

Chalia shook her head, trying to clear away the cobwebs that had invaded the very center of her thoughts. "I...can't go outside?" It was a stupid question. She could see it in the annoyed look on her brother's face, in the furrowing of his brow.

"Well, you _can_ go outside, yes...but why in the name of all that is holy you'd want to _sleep_ out there is beyond me."

"I don't...remember falling asleep. I..." She remembered her argument with Nessa. Had that been real? And One -Ear?

Soris let out an exasperated sigh. "I don't know what to do with you...really, I don't."

Hadn't Papa said that?

Chalia laughed, her head lolling forward.

"Okay, seriously, little sister...are you drunk?"

And that did it. The laughter exploded out of her then, much to Soris's obvious agitation. Well, she _did_ feel kind of drunk.

"I'm going to make you some tea, get you warmed up some." Her brother rolled his eyes. "Hopefully, I can get you sober before you have to stumble your way to the altar and embarrass us all."

_Oh, right..._

As Soris busied himself with the task of boiling water for tea, Chalia closed her eyes and tried to remember exactly what had happened, but it was like trying to grasp at the threads of a dream that were rapidly retreating back into the Fade.

And there was still that weight in her palm, troubling her. Slowly, she uncurled her fingers, which were still cold and stiff from being outside. A sharp, yellowed piece of bone lay cradled in her hand.

Her throat suddenly felt very dry, and her body trembled. Had she been trembling before? She couldn't remember.

_Oh Maker, no...no no no..._

"_There won't be any wedding..."_

Those should have been words of comfort; instead Chalia could feel icy fingers of fear beginning to claw their way into her belly.

Soris sat down beside her on the hearth, a cup of tea clutched in his hands. "You need to drink this, and... Chalia, what's the matter?" The steam rising out of the cup reminded her of Nessa's gasping breaths. It was too much.

"_Chalia!_"

She fainted.


	3. Loss and Longing

_**STANDARD DISCLAIMER: Dragon Age and all of its locations, characters, etc are the intellectual property of Bioware and Electronic Arts. I don't own anything...I just play here.**_

_**Author's Note: **_

_Okay, so we're not out of the alienage...and no Nelaros just yet. I'm getting there, but I wanted to do a bit of character building with this chapter, as well as some deepening of relationships and background work. _

_Tobin keeps cropping up in Chalia's thoughts. He'll be a really important piece of the puzzle later on, so I hope you can bear with me._

_Small warning...there's some brief sexual content in this chapter, but it's nothing overly graphic or smutty, so I really saw no reason to change the story rating just yet. I'm sure that will change in the future, though, as characters grow closer and begin to explore their feelings for one another. Just thought I'd throw that out there._

_Onward!_

* * *

**Chapter Three**

**Loss and Longing**

"**No love, no friendship, can cross the path of our destiny ****without leaving some mark on it forever." ~****Francois Mauriac**

When Chalia came to, the slant of light through her bedroom window told her that it was still mid-morning. She was tucked into her small bed, the blankets bunched up around her chin.

How had she...?

Oh, right...she had fainted. And probably drooled all over herself in the process. _Wonderful..._

What she could remember played through her mind like a fever dream. She could see Nessa's face, flushed and streaked with tears, and One-Ear's twisted, hungry grin as he stared her down across a pile of chicken bones and spoke words that made no sense to her. And then Soris's dark eyes, filled with concern, swam before her, his arms reaching for her as she pitched forward.

Chalia was startled from her thoughts by a soft, small voice from the doorway. "Aunt Chali...are you okay? Papa said you were sick."

A smile pulled at the corners of Chalia's mouth as she turned her head on the pillow so she could see her niece's tiny form shadowed in the doorway.

"I'm sure he also told you not to bother me, didn't he, Twyla?"

Twyla took a quick peek over her shoulder then shuffled to the bedside, the rag doll that she had "inherited" from Shianni on her fifth birthday clutched under her arm. "Welllll...he said you were asleep, and that I should be quiet. But you're awake now, right?" The elf-child's face lit up with a grin that reminded Chalia so much of Shianni that she couldn't help but grin in return. She reached out a hand and brushed a stray bunch of curls out of Twyla's face.

"Where are your parents?" Chalia asked as she struggled to sit up. She noticed that she was no longer dressed in the same nightgown she had been wearing earlier that morning. Had Soris...? No...knowing her brother, he had probably just tried to dump her back into bed. Shianni had probably changed her clothes. Or so she hoped. To think otherwise was just too humiliating.

"Papa went with Grandpa someplace. Mama's in the kitchen," said Twyla, twirling the doll's patchy hair with one finger. "Kallian made Flynn cry, and Mama got mad, so I came up here 'cause Molly got scared."

It took Chalia a moment to realize that her niece was referring to the doll she held in her small arms. She reached out and patted the doll on the head. "Don't worry, Molly," she said with a smile. "Twyla's mama can be a little scary sometimes, but she won't hurt you."

Twyla turned the doll's face toward her ear, making it appear as though "Molly" was whispering to her. She nodded, her chestnut curls bouncing. "Molly says she thinks you're real nice, Aunt Chali."

Chalia pushed the covers back and sung her legs over the side of the bed. "Well, tell Molly that I think she's pretty great, too," she said with a yawn as she stretched her arms over her head and rolled her head from side to side, wincing as she felt a few small pops.

Her niece giggled. "But you just told her!"

Chalia got to her feet and, with a hand resting gently on Twyla's shoulder, guided her out into the hallway. "Why don't you and Molly get Kallian and go play out in the garden for awhile so your mama and Flynn can have some peace, okay?"

Twyla's face fell as she hugged "Molly" tight to her chest. "Okay..."

"It'll be fun," Chalia said lightly. "Just stay close to the house. And_ behave_!"

"Okay..." Twyla said again, turning and shuffling toward the stairs. As she made her way down the hall, she looked back once, her lips settled into a pout.

Chalia closed the door to the bedroom with a smile and a small shake of her head. _Kids..._

She loved her niece and her nephews dearly, but...she wasn't sure she wanted any children of her own. They were just so much work, and required a level of patience that she highly doubted she would ever come to possess. How Soris managed it, she would never know.

The business of raising a family was one of the duties that marriage entailed. She had been told as much since she was a little girl. Certainly, her husband-to-be would expect her to relish the prospect of motherhood. The good wives usually did.

The elven women who either refused to marry and have children or those who married but could not produce children became pariahs, scorned or pitied, as if spreading one's legs and pushing out a litter of kids was all that mattered in life. In elven society, Chalia supposed it _did_ matter. After all, elves had once been immortal...or so she'd been told.

During the days prior to the Rebellion, Chalia knew that her mother had lived and traveled with a Dalish clan for a time, and Adaia, against Cyrion's wishes, had woven glorious nightly tales of Arlathan and the Creators of old for her children as they laid in bed, enchantment plain upon their faces in the candlelight as they hung onto her every word.

To them, _she_ had been a goddess, and Arlathan was alive within her...had died with her.

And the elves...her kind...they were dying. With each passing year, the number of familiar faces in the alienage dwindled, some taken by disease, by starvation, or worse- by injury or injustice at the hands of humans. Some families packed up and left as the human landlords raised their rents so high that they could no longer afford to pay. And then there were the children who ran off...the ones of or approaching marriageable age who decided that they did not want to live their lives stuck in the alienage, confined to the rules and whims of the human city that governed them.

Like Tobin...Soris's best friend. Tobin, five years older than herself, who had been utterly captivated when a motley group of elven troubadours- most hailing from Antiva- had come to Denerim. By day, they had performed satirical plays in the market square, their every movement tracked by the vigilant eyes of the city guards; by night, the group had retired to their camp just outside the city gates at the edge of the forest to dance and drink and sing bawdy songs.

One night, she and Tobin had sneaked through the hole in the alienage wall and made their way to the troubadour's camp. As they approached, the wild, uninhibited laughter of the foreign elves and the smell of horses and burning pine was carried to them across the hills by the summer breeze. The two spent most of that evening around the campfire, drinking fine Antivan spirits until both of them were giggling like little children and unsteady on their feet.

They listened as the troubadours weaved tale after tale...stories of the Dalish, a selection of obscure Orlesian fairytales, the classic child's story of Dane and the Werewolf (which, thanks to the freely-flowing wine had miraculously transformed into a much more "adult" version of the original) and finally- much to Tobin's delight- the tale of the fourth Blight and its elven hero, Garahel.

As she and Tobin stumbled back to the alienage in the darkness, clutching at one another to keep from falling, Tobin had prattled on and on about the Grey Wardens, about Garahel in particular...his bravery, his prowess in battle and his ultimate sacrifice. Tobin had confessed to her his desire to find the Wardens, to join their ranks. How romantic it had all sounded to her younger, naïve self.

At the time, Chalia had been enthralled by the passion in his voice as he spoke, his conviction. He had walked with her to her home, had climbed with her up the trellis to her bedroom window and had slipped inside- into her room and her bed.

Shianni had lain sleeping on the other side of the room as Tobin had kissed her, had slipped his warm, rough hands under her shirt. In mere moments, before she had any time to gather her thoughts, to act rationally, Tobin had removed her clothing as well as his own.

There were more kisses, she remembered, and pretty words mumbled against the hollow of her throat as he drove into her. She hadn't expected the pain, the sudden hot knife of pain that made her stiffen as Tobin's mouth covered hers to smother her cry. Her nails dug into his shoulders as he moved inside her, his lean hips rolling hard against hers, finding a quick but steady rhythm in the dark.

It hadn't lasted long at all. He groaned against her lips, his body shaking and then going still. She had lain there, underneath him, her breaths coming in short gasps, eyes locked onto a corner of the ceiling over her bed where cobwebs glittered in the moonlight.

And that had been that.

The next morning, Tobin had gone...not just from her bed, but from the alienage as well. She had searched for him, her gut wrenched with the fear that comes with knowing a truth with one's heart before seeing it with one's eyes.

When she reached the spot where the troubadour's camp had been, there was nothing. No tents, no wagons, no people...just the cold remnants of a fire and a smattering of horse droppings.

And, oh, how her young heart had broken.

Of course, she reasoned, that was years ago. None of it mattered anymore, right? Tobin wasn't coming back, and..._shit_...

She felt the hot sting of tears in her eyes and wiped them away with the back of her hand. She didn't have time to sit around and cry. She had things to do now...the most important of which was to find Nessa...and apologize.

* * *

Chalia's heart pounded, the sound of it echoing uncomfortably in her ears, as she stood outside the door to Nessa's family's apartment and prepared to knock. Before she could lift her hand to grasp the heavy brass ring, the door swung inward with a loud scrape. Haddan, Nessa's father, glowered down at her.

"I, um...Mister Kestrel...is Nessa able to come to the door?" Chalia asked, unable to meet the man's sour gaze. He was a mean one, Haddan Kestrel...a drunk, and from what Chalia had been able to deduce over the years, a wife-beater. As far as Chalia knew, Helena...Nessa's mother...rarely left her home. Chalia had only met the woman a handful of times as Nessa preferred to spend most of her time at the Tabris house.

It made sense.

"Nessa no longer lives here." Haddan's voice was hard-edged...cold.

Chalia's eyes snapped up to meet his. Her voice, when she found it, surprised her with its forcefulness."What do you mean? Where is she?"

Haddan's eyes narrowed. His hands came up on either side of the door frame as he loomed over her. It was intimidation at its best.

Over years of growing up together, Nessa had relayed stories to Chalia of Haddan's drunken rages, his violent outbursts. She'd seen her friend walk with a painful limp more than once...had seen her black eyes, the bruises on her arms and legs. She couldn't count the number of times that Nessa had talked of running away because of something her father had done.

Chalia hated the man. _Hated_ him.

She peered past him into the house, her eyes examining the front room. There was a bottle, half-empty, on the table...a pile of broken glass in the corner. Another bottle was on the floor, tipped on its side...empty. A third bottle, also empty, had rolled beneath one of the chairs. The smell of alcohol was overpowering and rolled off Haddan Kestrel in waves that made Chalia's stomach turn.

Haddan sagged against the door frame. Now that Chalia was really _looking_, she noticed that his posture was not all that intimidating, after all. He was hunched slightly as though in pain, and his legs quivered. His eyes were still cold as ever, but also cloudy and unfocused.

"You're a nosy brat, aren't you? And a little whore, too, from what I hear," he snarled, taking an unsteady step towards her.

Chalia blanched, taken aback more so by his choice of words than the tone in which they were delivered. His cruelty shouldn't have surprised her, but...had he just called her a whore? He couldn't be talking about...what she thought he was talking about...could he?

"Yeah, I'm sure you'll make that dumb cur from Highever a fine wife. Bet no one's told him you've already been had. You're just gonna stand up there in that white dress like the little lying slut you are."

Before she could react, Haddan reached out and grabbed her by the arm and shook her. "I kept telling Helena...I always knew you'd grow up to be a slut...just like your mother. I never liked my daughter running off to your house at all hours of the day and night, but I thought I raised her with more sense than to make a whore of herself!"

Fighting against the instinct to pull away, Chalia launched herself forward instead, throwing all her weight against Haddan's chest. He stumbled and flailed, and it was enough. She broke free and ran.

Behind her, she could hear Haddan yelling...a laundry list of all the filthy things he supposedly knew that she had done. The elves milling about the alienage, going about their daily business, stopped and stared at her as she ran past. Chalia knew that most of them were used to Haddan's drunken fits of rage, but that didn't make her feel better. She wasn't sure why his words bothered her so much. He didn't know her. He didn't know anything.

Valora was outside in the garden hanging laundry on the line when Chalia finally made it to the house, out of breath and shaking with...what? Anger? Embarrassment? She didn't know.

"Are you okay?" Valora asked, her thin lips drawn into a deep frown of concern.

Chalia brushed the hair out of her face and took a deep breath, trying to slow her heartbeat and calm herself. "I'm okay...it's just..." She shrugged. "Haddan Kestrel."

Valora's face contorted in naked disgust. One of the best and worst things about her sister-in-law, Chalia had decided long ago, was her expressive face. It was always easy to guess exactly what she was thinking. Chalia was sure that it had saved Soris many of the headaches that his married friends endured when their wives were in foul moods and tempers were ready to flare at any given second.

"That man is a disgusting pig..." Valora's face softened. "I'm guessing you know about Nessa, then...?"

"That she's...?"

Valora nodded and bit her lip, her fine-boned fingers worrying at the material of her modest brown skirt.

"Yeah..." Chalia sighed. "I know."

"She left...early this morning...while you were still in bed. Haddan followed her out of the house, just...screaming at her. I'm sure the whole alienage must know..." Valora's eyes were full of sympathy as she stepped forward and drew Chalia into her arms.

"I don't understand..."

Valora stroked Chalia's hair, her deft fingers working the tangles out of the dark mass of waves. "He's a drunken ass, Chalia...and a liar. Don't pay any attention to him. I know you're upset...and this is probably not the best time to say this, but..." Valora stepped back and placed her hands on Chalia's shoulders, holding her at arm's length. "We're going to have to start getting you ready. Your father and Soris have already gone to Valendrian's house to help Nelaros prepare."

Chalia rolled her eyes skyward. "I _hate_ this..."

Her sister-in-law gave her a soft smile. Chalia had always thought her a mousy thing, but Valora actually_ was_ quite pretty in the right light. Here in the partial shade of the Vhenadahl, she was radiant. "I felt that way, too...once upon a time, you know."

"Yeah...I just...I wish Nessa hadn't left like that. She could have at least said goodbye...or told me where she'd be. _Something_."

Valora shook her head and touched a finger to her lips. "Shhh...don't. Don't do that to yourself, okay?"

Chalia closed her eyes and nodded, utterly defeated.

Without hesitation, many elven women would surely refer to their wedding day as the happiest day of their life. At this rate, Chalia was certain she would never be able to claim anything of the sort.

Inside the house, Shianni was sitting by the fire with little Flynn, the youngest of Soris and Valora's children, swaddled in a blanket in her lap. He giggled as she bounced him up and down on her knee and made cooing noises. She leaned forward to brush her nose against his and he squealed happily. The two older children, Kallian and Twyla, were sitting side by side on the hearth and were working together to build something...a "castle" they claimed...out of colored wooden blocks.

Valora grinned. "How in the world did you manage to get those two to play together so quietly?"

Shianni returned Valora's grin and lifted Flynn up to plant a sloppy kiss on his little cheek. "Sorry...I don't give my secrets away for free. But we can negotiate later, if you'd like."

"Oh great..." Chalia laughed. "You're starting to sound like Papa now. Pretty soon you'll be arguing the price of silverite with Alarith."

Shianni stuck out her tongue, and Valora giggled. "You wouldn't mind terribly if I asked you to watch the kids for awhile longer while I get Chalia ready, would you, Shianni?"

Shianni rewarded her sister-in-law with a great, melodramatic sigh. "I suppose not...but I get to borrow your earrings for the harvest festival...you know...the really pretty silver ones with the blue stones? They match my dress."

Valora waved a hand dismissively. "We'll see...no promises," she said with a laugh as she took Chalia's hand and started up the stairs.

Shianni's voice floated up after them. "I'll let them eat sugar, I swear I will..._lots_ of it...you just wait and see!"


	4. Unprepared

_**STANDARD DISCLAIMER: Dragon Age and all of its locations, characters, etc are the intellectual property of Bioware and Electronic Arts. I don't own anything...I just play here.**_

_**Author's Note: **_

_This is one of those chapters that was both incredibly frustrating and incredibly fun to write. Lots of dialogue. Lots of completely random, ridiculous situations and...glorious awkwardness. Also, Chalia's temper gets a workout, and Duncan makes an appearance._

_I haven't made it to the real "meat" of the City Elf Origin yet, but I'm working to move things along. The characters, however...they have other ideas. I have a feeling that One-Ear will be showing up again in the next chapter. He's got plans, you see._

_I hope I've somehow managed to bang out an enjoyable chapter, even though I feel like all I've really done is ramble on for 5k+ words. _

_Onward!_

* * *

**Chapter Four**

**Unprepared**

"**Everyone knows that if you've got a brother, you're going to fight."**

**-Liam Gallagher**

In Soris and Valora's room at the very top of the house, Chalia perched on a wooden chair in front of the vanity and stared at herself in the mirror while Valora sat on the bed behind her and worked to smooth her stubborn mass of long, dark hair into something resembling a style...one that would be suitable for the wedding celebration that her father was paying for.

The cost of the wine and the food alone...ugh. Chalia closed her eyes. All this fuss over her, over something that she didn't even want. Every fiber of her being seemed to scream-_ Run! Go! _

Of course, that wasn't possible. There was no getting out of it. It was tradition. It was duty. It was inevitable. And, despite what her father had said to her the night before, it felt like a punishment, straight from the Maker himself.

Valora gave her hair a sharp tug.

"Ow! Hey!" Chalia yelled, jolting upright in her chair.

"You were slouching. Now turn your head, just a little to the..." Valora grasped her chin and forced her head to one side. "There! That's perfect...now don't move."

"How much longer do I have to sit like this? My neck hurts."

Valora whacked her comb against the base of Chalia's skull, making her jump. "Oh, quit complaining! Everyone's going to be staring at you today. Don't you want to at least look pretty while they do it?"

"What I want," Chalia sighed, "is to get really drunk and pretend this is happening to someone else."

Valora caught her eye in the mirror and grinned. "I've got you covered..." She reached over and plucked a bottle of pricey-looking wine from a nearby shelf. With minimal difficulty, as though she did it often, her sister-in-law popped the cork and placed the bottle in Chalia's hands.

Chalia cocked an eyebrow. "Seriously? Where did you get this?"

Valora shrugged, her fingers delving back into the thick mass of Chalia's hair. "Consider it a wedding gift...from Soris and me. Well, mostly from me. I know how you feel right now..._believe_ me."

"Oh? You mean you weren't swooning at the mere notion of marrying my handsome brother?"

"Hm...hardly. In fact, I was ready to run off and find the Dalish at one point." Valora giggled. "Well, _you_ grew up with Soris. You _know _what he's like- clumsy and stubborn...and he _always_ says all the wrong things. But..." Chalia watched Valora's reflection in the mirror as her lips drew up at the corners, her cheeks turning a soft shade of pink. "He can also be very sweet and thoughtful...and he's a wonderful father...and, just between you and me, an amazing lo-"

Chalia's hand flew up. "Whoa! Okay, you can stop right there! I don't even want to _think_ about..._that_... _Ugh_!"

Valora dropped her comb onto the floor as she burst into laughter and fell back on the bed, one hand clutching her belly.

Chalia turned slightly, fingernails of one hand drumming against the back of the chair. "Well, since you brought it up...I can _hear_ you, you know..."

Valora sat up, her laughter tapering off. She looked scandalized. "You...what?"

"I can hear you. When you and Soris...you know... Frankly, I'm surprised you can walk most days..."

"Oh Maker's mercy..." Valora sighed, covering her face with both hands. "Don't ever tell _him_ that."

Chalia grinned. "Don't worry, Valora. I would never do anything to jeopardize your...incredibly frequent moments of marital bliss."

Her sister-in-law groaned. "I knew I would regret marrying into this family someday."

"I'm sure Nelaros will feel the same way...probably sooner rather than later." Chalia leaned down and picked up the comb. With a flick of her wrist, she tossed it into Valora's lap. "Now can we please finish this? I promise I'll hold still if you promise to forget that I can hear you having sex with my brother."

* * *

It seemed to take hours, but eventually Chalia's hair was smoothed and neatly braided. A few loose curls fell across her pale shoulders and framed her face, which Valora had carefully powdered and painted with soft, colored cosmetics...something Chalia knew next to nothing about and was more than happy to leave to her sister-in-law's capable hands.

Valora hummed quietly as she laced up the back of Chalia's wedding gown. It was the same dress Adaia had worn on her wedding day so many years ago. The dress was simple, but elegant- a belted ivory sheath that hugged Chalia's uncommon curves in a way that she knew her father would readily disapprove of if the garment had been anything other than a wedding gown.

"Okay...close your eyes," Valora said after one last tug at the laces.

"I can't breathe!" she groused as Valora spun her around with one hand on the curve of her waist.

"Oh, shut up and have a look at yourself."

Chalia opened her eyes and was shocked to stillness by the sight of her own reflection before her in the dresser mirror. She had never been one to wear frilly dresses or to make herself up- something Shianni seemed to relish- preferring most days to wear just breeches and hand-me-down shirts that her brother had long since grown out of, clothing that was simple and easy to move around in...clothing that didn't scream to the other residents of the alienage that her family was well-off.

The Tabris family was not rich by any means, but compared to other elven families, they were in good financial shape. Her father had worked hard for years, first as an assistant to a human merchant and later, after an injury to his leg that left him unable to travel the long distances that were required for such a job, as a personal servant to Bann Rodolf at his Denerim estate where he was well-liked and well-paid. Over the years, Cyrion had set money aside to buffer his young family from the shackles of poverty, knowing that his injury would eventually force him into retirement...and he had been wise in doing so. Often there were days when her father would wake with a pain in his leg so great that he would limp for the majority of the day...or worse, he would be forced to rely heavily upon the wooden cane he tried to hide from his children- though all three of them secretly knew and pretended otherwise, allowing their father his prideful ruse.

With the money Cyrion had saved, the Tabris family was able to purchase things that other elven families could only dream of. A house of their own, for instance...one with three stories that appeared modest from the outside but was able to accommodate the sort of extended family that Cyrion and Adaia knew the inevitable marriages of their children would bring.

There were also shelves filled with books all over the house. Books and the knowledge contained within them were a luxury, an extravagant one. But the young parents...mostly Adaia...had wanted their children to learn to read, to learn about the world outside the alienage and its history. Adaia had collected books of stories and poems, as well, reading what Cyrion had called "fairy stories" to her children as they lay tucked in bed and ready to drift off to sleep.

Although her parents had not flaunted their wealth, there were those in the alienage, like Haddan Kestrel, who resented it. He raged at his daughter for wanting to spend all of her time with "snobs" who walked through the alienage with their "noses stuck up in the air while they shit on their elven heritage", as he so eloquently put it. Even Tobin, who had been like a brother to Soris and who had spent many an evening at the Tabris house, laughing over a meal shared at the family table or playing a game of cards on the hearth, had accused Chalia more than once of "putting on airs." At one point, he'd even begun calling her "Princess." Soris had shrugged it off, told her that Tobin's family was not so well off as theirs...like she hadn't known that already.

Tobin's father had been killed by an overzealous city guard after being accused of stealing. His mother still worked as a lady-in-waiting for one of the local Bann's spoiled daughters, but the money she made was barely a living wage. And Tobin's sister, Talla...well, she'd gone off to work at the Pearl. The last Chalia had heard, she'd gotten herself "knocked-up," and Tobin had spoken of her less and less until the very mention of her name made him so angry that Chalia had stopped asking questions. And now even Tobin was gone.

Chalia had never once thought of herself as rich or privileged. Those were labels that others had always applied to her and to the Tabris name. It was strange, though. As she studied her reflection, she was hard-pressed to deny that she looked elegant...even- dare she think it?- beautiful.

There was a loud knock, and the bedroom door swung open. Soris gaped at his sister, open-mouthed, as she turned to face him.

"What?" she snapped, hands balled into fists that came to rest on her hips.

Soris cleared his throat. "Nothing, it's just...you look, you know...like a _girl_. Just kind of a shock, that's all."

"Gee, thanks. Compliments are clearly not your forte." Chalia reached over and grabbed the wine bottle from the dresser. No, she was definitely not drunk enough for this. Not yet, anyway. She took a swig.

Soris yanked the bottle from her hands. "Cool it, sis...I don't want to have to prop you up out there."

Chalia rolled her eyes. "You can't even stand on your own two feet without falling over most of the time. People will just think it's a family trait."

"I'll just leave you two alone," Valora said, moving to the door. "Please try to leave him alive, Chalia. I don't relish the idea of raising three children by myself."

As the door closed behind his wife, Soris collapsed into the chair that Chalia had recently vacated. The wooden legs creaked loudly in protest.

"So...you _do_ look...really nice," he mumbled, one hand rubbing the back of his neck. "I guess I don't say that very often, but, well...you know..."

"Umm..." Okay. What the hell was she supposed to say to that? She and Soris didn't exactly spend quality time exchanging compliments with one another. "Yeah, I...thanks..."

A sad smile touched Soris's mouth. "I know you've heard this at least a million times in the last day or so, but...you really do look like Mama."

Chalia's eyes wandered across the floor, tracing cracks in the wood.

"I also know that this isn't exactly the easiest thing for you. It wasn't for me, either."

Chalia snorted. "Funny...you seem to have recovered just fine."

"Yeah, well..." Soris grinned up at her. "It's a family trait, I guess."

"I keep thinking that I should have just run away when I had the chance..." Chalia said, her voice soft and halting as she fidgeted with the beaded ends of the belt at her waist.

"Look," Soris's began, his brow creased in thought. "I never said anything before, but..._come on_...you have to know that Tobin was never going to marry you."

Chalia's head snapped up, her eyes narrowing as she crossed her arms over her chest in a gesture of defiance. "Who said anything about Tobin?"

"Nobody had to." Soris stood and pushed the chair back with a swipe of his foot. "It's not like I didn't know, Chalia. I'm not completely oblivious..."

"I don't see how it's any of your business."

Soris shook his head. "It's not, but...I feel better seeing you marry someone who's not a selfish bastard. Having spent time with Nelaros, I can tell you that he's just...he's just good, all around. Don't get me wrong...Tobin had some good qualities, but we both know that he wasn't exactly considerate. He did what he wanted, when he wanted...and Maker forbid anyone got in his way."

Chalia opened her mouth to reply, but...she didn't know what to say. What was there to say? Soris was right. She knew he was right. She'd known all along, hadn't she?

Her brother let out an exasperated sigh. "Look, Chalia, this isn't at all what I wanted to talk to you about. I just...felt it needed to be said. The truth is...you're a stubborn mess, and by the Maker you try my patience and you _royally_ piss me off..."

"Oh, do please go on. I'm flattered, truly," Chalia deadpanned, rolling her eyes.

Soris held up both hands, palms facing outward in a gesture of placation. "My point, okay? My point is that I love you, and I think you are one of the bravest people I know. I know you'll be okay. This marriage thing? I know you can handle it, even if you don't think so."

Chalia uncrossed her arms from her chest and let her brother pull her in for a hug. In a rare gesture of affection, Soris brushed a stray tendril of hair from her eyes and placed a kiss on her forehead. Chalia wrinkled her nose and shoved him away from her.

"Oh, knock it off, idiot," she said with a smirk. "I'm just saying some vows, not riding off into battle. You can save all this sentimental crap for someone else."

"Did I mention," Soris began, flashing her a crooked smile, "that your groom is out in the hallway just waiting to see your pretty, smiling face?"

Chalia's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "You've got to be kidding me..."

Soris gave a flippant shrug. "Sorry, dear sister, I just figured that the bride and groom should have a bit of alone time to get to know one another before the wedding. Just a thought."

"Soris, no...don't even think it!" As her brother reached for the door knob, Chalia started to rush forward to stop him, but the heel of her shoe- _oh, Andraste's flaming ass, those stupid, impractical shoes Valora had forced on her!_- caught the hem of her dress and sent her tumbling face first onto the bed.

Chalia scrambled to her knees amidst the tangle of blankets now wrapped around her limbs like coiling snakes. _Maker's balls_, her hair was probably a mess...and...wait...why did she care what her hair looked like all of sudden?

"Should I...come back later?"

The deep, unfamiliar voice from the doorway snapped Chalia's attention back to the situation at hand.

"Oh, don't mind my sister. She's been drinking." Chalia glanced up in time to see Soris put his arm around a tall, blond and, admittedly, handsome elven man and guide him into the room. "She doesn't do it often, but when she does...let's just say she doesn't hold her liquor very well."

Chalia struggled to her feet, which was no small task with the tight fit of her wedding gown. Her hands flew to her hair, attempting to smooth the stray strands back into some semblance of order, while her eyebrows drew together in a glare that made Soris retreat a few more steps into the hallway even as he grinned at her. Nelaros- for she assumed that's who this man had to be- just looked uncertain and ill at ease.

"Soris, if I were you...and frankly, I don't think I could ever manage to be so stupid...I'd think of my wife and kids and shut the damned door before I kill you," she managed, her voice quavering with barely restrained anger and embarrassment.

For once, her brother wisely chose not to argue and shut the door quietly. Chalia listened to the steady retreat of his footsteps as an awkward silence descended upon Nelaros and herself. Wordlessly, they took in the sight of one another.

He was neatly dressed in simple but decent and clean attire, his short blond hair swept back from his face, highlighting his high cheekbones and his sloping, well-formed nose. He blinked at her, looking sheepish after his ill-timed entrance. His eyes were large, expressive, and reminded Chalia of the soft eyes of the deer she often watched drink from the creek where she practiced with her daggers. He was tall for an elf...taller than her brother or her father who both towered over her by nearly a head. His body was slender, like most elves, but his shoulders were broad, his arms obviously well-muscled even through the layer of fabric which hid them from view. They were the arms of a smith, the arms of a man who had spent countless hours at the forge.

Chalia, though her inner wildness railed against it, was impressed. Without conscious thought, her hands moved to smooth away the creases in the front of her dress.

Nelaros cleared his throat, and Chalia shook herself as she realized that she'd been staring...quite openly, in fact._ Damn it._

"If this is a bad time..." he started. Well, now that was probably the most unintentionally hilarious thing he could have said...

"No, it's..it's not," she stuttered. This was hopeless. "How was your trip...from Highever, I mean?"

"Oh." Nelaros's face brightened at the mention of his home. Okay, so maybe this wasn't so hopeless, after all. "Thankfully, it was quite uneventful. Though...I'm sure you met Dilwyn and Gethon? Those two managed to keep things...lively."

"I don't think 'lively' is the word you were looking for..." she muttered without thought.

To her surprise, he laughed. "No, perhaps not. They're an acquired taste, certainly. It must take years. I haven't quite managed it yet, myself."

Handsome and funny. Huh.

Maybe Soris was right. Maybe she _could_ do this.

Or maybe not. The awkward silence stretched out between them again, and Chalia fidgeted uncomfortably.

"I find it somewhat surprising that your father had such a difficult time finding you a suitable husband. You're very lovely..." Nelaros's voice pierced the silence like an arrow. "Everyone kept telling me how beautiful you were, and to be honest...I was starting to have my doubts. But, well...they weren't lying."

Chalia sneaked a quick glance at him from beneath her lashes. Was he blushing? He _was_. The realization was a bit disconcerting, but it was nice to know that she wasn't alone in her awkwardness.

She offered up a demure smile. "Thank you. I...could say the same about you, actually. Dilwyn in particular seemed awfully keen on selling me on the idea of having a handsome husband."

Nelaros rolled his eyes at her mention of Dilwyn. "I don't doubt that one bit. Over dinner at Valendrian's house last night she was making a big fuss about how your father should have paid her at least half of what the matchmaker was pocketing."

Chalia grinned and was about to reply when there was a sudden commotion outside. One of the shutters had been propped open to let in some fresh air, and through the window drifted the scream of a woman and then the sound of men yelling.

With a quick glance at one another, both she and Nelaros flew down both sets of stairs and out the front door into the alienage proper. Valora was there in the garden just outside the house with the baby in her arms, her two oldest children clutching at her skirts. Soris stood in front of his wife and children, his body and face tensed.

There was a crowd gathered near the platform where the wedding ceremony was to take place. Her father and Valendrian stood off to one side, their heads turned slightly toward the scene, necks craned as though they had been interrupted mid-conversation. Chalia rose up on the balls of her feet for a better view, but she couldn't see Shianni...until a large, finely-dressed human man shoved his way through the mass of elves, his cruel laughter splintering the air like the cracking of bones.

"Just have a look at this fine little thing," the loud-mouthed human cackled, swatting the backside of a young red-haired elven girl.

"Don't touch me, you disgusting pig!"

_Oh Maker's balls...Shianni!_

The crude human was followed through the crowd by a small group of other, similarly-dressed men. The spoiled sons of local nobles, most likely, out causing trouble. It wasn't unheard of. Chalia had seen it before and chosen to ignore it, but...things had just become personal.

"Go on, Vaughn...get her! She looks like she wants to play," one of the cronies laughed as the others joined him in his catcalls.

"Villains..." Nelaros spat, moving to position himself in front of her.

The one called Vaughn made a grab for Shianni, but she drew back and slapped him hard across the face with a resounding crack. The human, however, quickly recovered and captured her arm, his fingers digging into her cruelly as he drew her against him. Shianni squirmed violently in his grasp while he chuckled. "What do you think, boys? I think I'll enjoy taming this one!" The human's free hand slid up to rudely squeeze one of her breasts.

That was that. Chalia shoved Nelaros aside and charged forward.

"Chalia!" she heard Soris hiss. "Don't do anything..."

"Hey asshole!"

"...rash..." Soris finished lamely. "_Dammit_..."

Elves and humans alike turned as she approached, her eyes blazing with anger. "Get your filthy hands off my sister, shem!"

"Well, well, well..." the human called Vaughn mused aloud as he tossed Shianni into the arms of one of his followers who leered down at her. "I didn't know elven whores could be so...feisty. Very amusing."

"You won't be so amused when I lop off your balls and feed them to you..." Chalia snarled, reaching for the dagger she wore at her..._oh crap_.

Behind Vaughn's towering form, Chalia saw her sister draw her arm forward and then back swiftly, elbowing the man who held her below the ribs. He gasped, doubling over in pain as Shianni broke free and ran.

While Chalia was distracted, Vaughn came toward her with a swiftness that she had not been expecting. His arm slithered around her waist and crushed her body against his chest. "Come now...such foul words from such a pretty, pretty mouth."

Suddenly, there was a loud crack and Vaughn pitched forward. Chalia dived to the side to avoid being trapped underneath his falling body. When he hit the ground, she saw the bits of broken glass in his hair, the wound bleeding freely at the back of his skull. In the spot where Vaughn had loomed over her only seconds before, Shianni now stood, the remnants of a broken wine bottle clutched in her trembling hand. Both the crowd of elves and the few remaining humans had backed away, leaving the sisters staring at one another, wide-eyed and dazed, over Vaughn's prone body.

"Do you have any idea what you've done, Knife Ears?" One of the humans...a fat, pasty man who looked to Chalia like an eggplant in his gaudy purple finery...had stepped forward, his finger pointed accusingly at Shianni, who was still holding the broken bottle and shaking like a leaf. "That was Vaughn Urien, the Arl of Denerim's son. Mark my words, you're gonna pay for this!"

The other humans cast sour glares at the surrounding elves and gathered around Vaughn, groaning with the effort as they hefted his unconscious body and began to carry him away toward the heavy gates that led back to the marketplace.

Shianni finally let the bottle slip from her fingers and covered her face with both hands. "Oh Maker...what have I done?"

Chalia embraced her sister's quivering body, rubbing a soothing hand over her back. Her eyes, however, remained locked upon the retreating forms of the humans as they shuffled out of the alienage, awkwardly bearing the weight of their fallen ring leader. The fat human stared back at her with unconcealed anger etched on his doughy face.

_Whatever. Asshole._

"Are you all right?" Soris placed a tentative hand on Chalia's shoulder. She let go of Shianni and whirled to face him, her eyes glinting with rage, hands balled into fists.

"I'm fine, no thanks to you! Where the hell _were_ you?"

Soris backed up, hands held up in front of him. "Calm down."

"I will_ not_ calm down!" Chalia raged, poking an accusing finger into his chest. "How do you always manage to be so bloody useless?"

Soris grabbed her hands, squeezing them roughly to keep them still. "Chalia...everyone is staring...stop it."

With a scream of pure frustration, Chalia yanked her hands out of her brother's grasp and spun around, not wanting to see that look of guilt and shame on his face that was so...so...Soris-like. And sure enough, everyone _was _staring. She could see her father and Valendrian watching her from their place at the far end of the platform. They were whispering to one another. And...who the hell was that? Another human?

This one wasn't like the others, though. He was taller, broader, older...with dark skin and hair, and he wore a suit of ornate armor that gleamed even in the weak sunlight that filtered down into the alienage through the branches of the Vhenadahl. It wasn't the armor of the city guard. It was far too battle-worn for that. And there was some sort of emblem emblazoned on the breastplate that she couldn't quite make out. It was too scarred, too faded. He was also quite well-armed, she noticed. Where had he come from...and how much of that...altercation had he seen?

Whoever he was, he was watching her with what looked to be great interest.

_Well, fuck him._

Her cheeks grew ruddy with embarrassment, and she fled toward the house, shrugging off Nelaros's fumbling effort to comfort her. Who the hell was he to try comforting her, anyway? He'd known her...what? Five minutes?

She collapsed into a cushioned chair near the fireplace. Her father's chair, the one he often retired to in the evenings to smoke his pipe and to read. It smelled like him. She buried her face in the plush upholstery and willed herself to slow her breathing. Her heart was pounding in her ears, and she could just feel the hot blood that had flooded into her cheeks. Her hair, her face...all of Valora's careful work was surely ruined by now. She was a bloody mess.

How could Soris...could _all of them_...even her father and Valendrian...have just stood there and watched those dirty humans grope Shianni like that? If she hadn't stepped in...well, she didn't want to even think about what could have happened. The possibilities were too horrible.

And everyone was probably still standing around outside like a bunch of cattle...probably gossiping about her and her horrible temper. Nelaros was probably negotiating his return to Highever with her father right now. Well, maybe that was for the best. None of this pomp and circumstance was for her. It was tradition.

_Fuck tradition. _

She was about as far from tradition as it was possible to be. Perhaps her little outburst would just convince everyone of that, and she could shove this stupid dress into the very back of her closet where it belonged. Maybe then everyone would just leave her al-

Just then, the front door blew open and in breezed Dilwyn with one hand pressed theatrically to her bosom. _Fantastic..._

"Oh, sweetheart, I just had to make sure you were all right. You poor dear..."

Chalia groaned inwardly, but she kept quiet, not trusting her words.

"Look at you, honey," Dilwyn said as she fluttered over to Chalia's side and began fussing with her hair. "What a mess! Here...let me help you."

"I..."

Dilwyn swatted her cheek. "Come on now, dear...stand up!"

Chalia reluctantly stood and allowed Dilwyn to have her way. The woman was truly a force of nature. A horribly annoying force of nature. She buzzed here and there, words tumbling from her lips without so much as a breath in-between as she worked to untangle and re-braid Chalia's long, thick mass of hair.

"I'm sorry...what..?" Chalia asked with a quirked brow. She couldn't have possibly heard that right.

"I said bend over, dear," Dilwyn drawled patiently. Her smile was a bit too sugary. "I have to re-lace this dress properly. It's a sin to not show off those gorgeous breasts of yours. The Maker gave them to you freely, did he not?"

Chalia was unable to stop herself from glancing down. "Umm..."

Dilwyn's hand settled firmly on Chalia's back and forced her to bend at the waist. Chalia braced her hands against the arm of her father's reading chair, eyes widening slightly with surprise as she felt Dilwyn's hands deftly loosening the laces of her dress and reaching around to adjust the swell of her chest before pulling the laces taut once again.

When Dilwyn allowed Chalia to stand upright, she clapped her hands in delight like a little girl. "There...perfect! It's so rare to see an elven girl with...well...meat on her bones. Most girls are so skinny!"

_Probably because they're starving._ Another thought Chalia would be keeping to herself. They were just piling up.

Chalia was relieved to hear the front door open again, followed by her father's voice. "Dilwyn, if you don't mind..."

Dilwyn continued with her task of straightening and smoothing the long skirt of Chalia's gown, waving a hand dismissively. "In a moment, Cyrion. We were just having some girl time, weren't we, dear?"

"Oh sure..." Chalia muttered, her gaze pleading as she met her father's eyes.

Cyrion's brow furrowed in puzzlement as he looked at his daughter. "That's...interesting. I don't remember this dress being quite so...revealing."

"Oh, yes, that..." Dilwyn turned her head briefly in Cyrion's direction and offered up a mischievous smile. "I made some...minor adjustments, Cyrion, nothing to worry about. In fact," her smile turned into a wicked grin, "I wouldn't be at all surprised to hear about you welcoming another grandchild into the world come spring time."

The color promptly drained from Cyrion's face. "Huh, I see," he grunted uncomfortably. "You know, Dilwyn...I think you should be getting back to your husband."

Dilwyn snorted, clearly unconcerned.

"Last I saw, Gethon was talking to that Lila from across the way...you know, the dark-haired woman you were saying was so pretty." Chalia saw one corner of her father's mouth quirk up in an undeniable smirk. "They seemed to be getting along rather well. Did you know her husband passed away last summer?"

Dilwyn's hands froze at that and she straightened, rising to her full height, which was not all that considerable. She kept her back to Cyrion, but Chalia could see the lines of fury etched into the woman's face. "No...I was not aware. I think I should go."

With that, Dilwyn spun on her heel, flashed Cyrion a fleeting smile and showed herself to the door.

For a brief moment, Chalia and her father just looked at one another with matching expressions of disbelief plain on their faces. Then, they were laughing. Just like that, Chalia felt the tension and bitterness from before ebb from her body. She grinned up at her father.

"That was...a little scary."

Cyrion's laughter suddenly ceased, his mouth drawing into a thin line of solemnity. "What's scary is seeing my daughters nearly get themselves killed."

"Papa...everyone else was just standing there!" Chalia said, the tension working its way back into her muscles.

"Everything was under control..."

"Everything was _not _under control, and don't tell me any differently! I did what I had to. I wasn't going to let my sister be..."

Cyrion cut her off with a wave of his hand. "I understand. Just...try to be more rational. You need to think before you go charging off like that."

Chalia trained her eyes on the floor, unable to meet her father's eyes. He was right, of course. Guiltily, she remembered reaching for her weapon and finding...nothing. Her father had noticed...had seen her reaching for the dagger that wasn't there.

"There's something I need to give to you." Cyrion beckoned for her to follow him up the stairs to his room. Inside, he knelt next to his bed, reaching a hand into the darkness underneath. When he stood, he was holding a small, carved wooden chest which he handed over to her. "It was your mother's. After today, I think it would be a useful thing for you to have."

Chalia gathered a deep breath into her lungs before easing the chest open to reveal a dark leather sheath with straps that, she knew, would wrap easily around her thigh. From the sheath rose the gray hilt of a dagger carved from halla bone that she remembered her mother had once placed into her small hands, had shown her what to do, where on the body a good, solid strike would cripple...or kill.

Cyrion watched her carefully as she slid the dagger from its sheath, tested the weight of it in her hand, then slid the blade back home.

"We should get back," Cyrion said, his voice soft with resignation. "After all that...commotion, Valendrian will be eager to begin the ceremony."

Chalia swallowed a lump that had risen in her throat, her fingers gliding over the smooth leather as she cradled sheath and dagger in her fine-boned hands. "I'll...be down in a minute."

Cyrion nodded and quietly departed, leaving his daughter alone with her thoughts.

Chalia sat on her father's bed and slid the skirt of her wedding gown up over her hips. Pressing the leather sheath against her outer thigh, she strapped it carefully into place, tugging lightly more than once to make sure it was secure.

She would not be caught unprepared, not taken by surprise...not again. Not ever.

With the words of her silent vow to herself echoing in her mind, she stood, her mother's dagger a comforting weight she knew she would bear without complaint as she went to meet her fate.


	5. The Hungry Dark

_**STANDARD DISCLAIMER: Dragon Age and all of its locations, characters, etc are the intellectual property of Bioware and Electronic Arts. I don't own anything...I just play here.**_

_**Author's Note: **_

_Believe me when I say that I am annoyed with myself for having taken so long to get this chapter together. There have been weeks of illness, social events, writing projects, overtime at work and other such strangeness that has prevented me from giving this story the attention it requires. However, have no fear...I am NOT going to abandon the story. Chalia would never let me do that. She's been hounding me for weeks, and the little spitfire can be kinda scary. I'm a human, after all, and she knows that she has to keep an eye on me lest I do something gross and disgusting._

_Anyway, this chapter is pretty short (comparatively speaking, of course), and you can expect another (longer) chapter to be posted as early as next week since I will actually have the time to put together something coherent (and worthy of Chalia's intense, elfish scrutiny) by then._

_Onward!_

* * *

**Chapter Five**

**The Hungry Dark **

**"Time moves in one direction, memory in another."**

**-William Gibson**

Chalia stood stiffly on the wooden platform, Nelaros at her side. He was looking at her, naked concern in his large brown eyes, but she wouldn't turn her head to meet his gaze. Instead, she stared straight ahead, her eyes fixed on dark patch of bark along the wide trunk of the Vhenadhal. It looked like a face, she decided...an old man's grizzled face. It reminded her of One Ear.

The memory jarred her, and her fingers twitched, worrying at the ivory belt circling her waist. A lump rose in her throat, and she swallowed hard as she briefly searched the sea of faces that spread out before her. No sign of the old man. It wasn't exactly surprising. One Ear preferred to keep to the shadows.

It felt as if the entire alienage was staring at her. Maybe they were. If her earlier flare of temper had not given them reason enough, well, then Dilwyn's alterations to her wedding dress certainly were not helping matters.

"You look beautiful," Nelaros whispered, reaching out tentatively to take her hand. She let him. Too many bad things had already happened today, and there was no sense in fighting his attempt to comfort her. He meant well, she supposed. And besides, there was no time like the present to begin playing the part of the dutiful wife.

"Though..." he began. "I don't remember your dress being quite so..."

"Dilwyn," Chalia said shortly, still refusing to meet his gaze.

"Ah." From the corner of her eye, she saw him nod. Thankfully, that seemed enough of an explanation for him.

A hush descended upon the gathered elves as Valendrian made his way onto the platform to stand before the bride and groom. The Harhen was swiftly joined by a weary-looking Cyrion Tabris and the Chantry priest who was to officiate the marriage.

Chalia caught her father's eyes for a moment, and he offered her a tired smile. His leg was aching. Chalia could see it in the halting way he moved as he struggled not to put his full weight on the injured limb. As her father winced in pain, she bit her lip. She wanted to go to him, to offer him a shoulder on which to lean, but as far as he knew she had no knowledge of his infirmities, and there was his pride to consider. It would be no favor to him to expose his physical weakness in front of the entire alienage, so she did her best to ignore it.

Instead, she tried to concentrate on the words of Valendrian's speech...something about slavery and chains...about Andraste...and freedom...and pride. It was the same speech he always gave at weddings-at any celebration really. It was a litany of tired, useless words. Chalia barely restrained the urge to roll her eyes.

Her gaze wandered again through the crowd, pausing briefly at each familiar face. Valora wore a faint smile on her thin lips as she bounced little Finn in her arms. Twyla was balanced on Soris's shoulders. Her brother was shaking his head, his eyes cast downward as he put a finger to his lips, most likely signaling for Kallian to keep quiet.

Maybe that would be her and Nelaros in a few years, Chalia found herself thinking...watching from the sidelines with their own children as some other young, manufactured couple stood like deer before the crossbow up here on this platform whileValendrian droned on and on. Well...that was depressing. She forced the picture from her mind.

Hadan Kestrel lurked at the very back of the crowd, a scowl darkening his face. His wife, Helena, stood beside him. She reminded Chalia of a frightened mouse the way she kept to her husband's shoulder as though held on an invisible leash, hands clasped together, head bowed, folded into herself. It was a relief to see the woman, though, no matter how pathetic she seemed. It meant she wasn't dead. Hadan hadn't killed her yet in a fit of rage. That, at least, was something. And still...no Nessa- her absence a stark reminder of the morning's events. But, no...Chalia couldn't allow herself to think about that. Not now. She had a facade to maintain.

And then she saw him there, to the left of Kestrel, standing like a shining silver tower in his suit of heavy plate mail...the human whom she had glimpsed speaking to Valendrian before. He was at least a head taller than any of the elves surrounding him, dark-skinned, dark-haired with a serious face. He met her eyes, gave a slight nod.

Who was he, anyway?

"...and these children of the Maker stand here in his sight today to be joined by the holy bonds of matrimony..."

Chalia was suddenly snapped back to reality. The priest stood before her and Nelaros in her heavy white robes with the holy symbol of Andraste emblazoned upon her breast. The woman was not young, not old...somewhere in-between. There were faint lines beginning to accumulate around her eyes and at the corners of her mouth, her face still eager and animated as she spoke. Chalia wondered if this was the woman's first time officiating a marriage. She didn't sound bored like all the others. In fact, she sounded as if she sincerely believed every word she spoke, especially when she used words like honor...and love.

_Ugh. _

Honor, Chalia could understand, but love? This had nothing to do with love. This was duty.

Of course, the priest was just a shem. She didn't understand how the elves did things. This woman's only sense of duty was reserved for the Maker. She was a product of the Chantry, confined within its walls...kept comfortable and well-fed. She didn't know anything.

Chalia felt Nelaros squeeze her hand. She'd drifted off again...and was this the part where she was expected to say something? Wait, no, something was wrong. There was a commotion in the crowd, yelling and shoving, and what...?

"M'lord, this is a wedding!" The priest's voice climbed several octaves as the tall human- that disgusting Vaughn creature who had been carried out of the alienage earlier by his cronies- ascended the makeshift steps onto the platform and plucked the leather-bound tome containing the Chant of Light from the woman's hands.

Vaughn's laugh was full of arrogance as he set the heavy book aside on one of the flower-strewn tables as though he were merely passing a dish of butter to a dinner guest. "Well, if you want to dress up your pets and have tea parties, that's your business, Sister. But please don't insult me by pretending that this is a proper wedding."

The human spread his arms wide and held them out to the crowd below him. "Now, here's the thing," he began, his lips pulled up at the corners in a cocky half-smile. "I'm having a little party, you see, and I'm dreadfully short on female guests. My friends and I are just here to invite some ladies back to the house for a bit of fun. Do we have any...volunteers?"

Nelaros drew himself up to his full height, which for an elven man was considerable, and pushed Chalia behind him.

"I won't let them take you," he said in a firm whisper.

"What about this one here, Vaughn?" There was a shriek as one of Vaughn's lackeys wrapped his meaty hand around Shianni's arm and tugged her wriggling form against him. "Isn't this the bitch that bottled you?"

Vaughn's half-smile spread into a predatory grin as he knelt at the edge of the platform and looked down at Shianni from his perch like an owl about to swoop down upon a helpless mouse.

"Yes, her. She needs to be taught to mind her betters, I think. We'll teach her some respect."

Chalia sensed her father's posture stiffen. Cyrion's hands had balled tightly into fists at his sides, but he stayed where he was. Valendrian stood next to Cyrion, head bowed, eyes closed. What in the nine hells was he doing? Praying? Some help he was...

Chalia sought out her brother in the crowd below, and she saw him bending down to set Twyla on the ground, but where was...?

"Let her go!" Valora had pushed her way angrily through the mass of bodies and grabbed at the arm of the man who held Shianni. He smacked her cruelly across the face, and she fell backwards into the arms of one of the other humans. The man leered down at her as she struggled to get away, still unsteady on her feet from the unexpected blow. He wound her hair into a knot with one of his hands and tugged her head back, exposing her neck and drawing his blade to place against the white, shuddering column of her throat.

Soris's face twisted in anger, but still he waffled, clearly torn between going to his wife's aid and not wanting to leave his children alone in the crowd where they could be trampled or worse if a fight broke out.

_Damn it all..._

Vaughn's haughty laughter rang out a second time. "A bit homely, that one, but she's all yours if you want her, Horace. No accounting for taste, after all."

The other humans moved through the crowd, picking out women who caught their eyes, laughing boorishly. And, still, no one did anything, and Chalia could feel the fury inside of her rising dangerously.

It was then that Vaughn stood and turned to face her. Well, not really _her_. He was looking at Nelaros, his eyebrows raised in amusement. Amused, Chalia was sure, that any knife-ear would have the gall to try standing up to a noble-born son of Denerim instead of falling on the ground at his feet in supplication.

And then his focus shifted, and Chalia felt her stomach begin to churn with disgust as the human's eyes, dark with naked male appreciation, traveled over the curves of her body. His gaze lingered on her breasts, and she silently cursed Dilwyn for her meddling.

"And see the pretty bride. I remember you." Vaughn's grin was lecherous. "You're the scrapper."

Nelaros, his eyes narrowed, took a menacing step toward the human, but Chalia grabbed him by the sleeve. He opened his mouth to protest, but she shook her head. "No..." she said softly, then more firmly. "No!"

Chalia gave Nelaros a gentle shove and made her way to where Vaughn stood, enveloped in an aura of smug triumph. "Take me. Let the others go."

Vaughn reached out and firmly grasped her chin. "Now, sweetheart, I'm afraid I just can't do that. It's a party, after all, and my friends here are all starved for affection. I can't be selfish, now, can I?"

With that, he drew back his arm and hit her...not open-handed the way his lackey had struck Valora, but with his fist against her temple, and she dropped like a stone into the dark water of lost consciousness.

* * *

"Come on now, girl...wake up! Up!"

Chalia's head felt fuzzy, her limbs like lead. Someone was stroking her hair.

When she opened her eyes, One Ear's sallow face swam before her. His hand left her hair, fingers trailing feather-light across her cheek. He brushed his calloused thumb over her bottom lip, and she shivered.

"W-what happened? Where...?"

One Ear raised a finger to own his lips in a gesture of silence. "Hush, young one. Now isn't the time."

The room...or...well, wherever she was, Chalia only knew that it was freezing. And dark. Though One Ear's face was illuminated by a soft greenish light whose source she could not see. Everything else was awash in blackness, a liquid dark that Chalia was certain she could feel stirring all around her like some living being.

She was fairly sure that she and One Ear were not alone in this place.

Then she heard them- the voices. They hissed and sang and whispered and beckoned to her from the shadows that surrounded her. They called her name...or rather, one of them did. And that voice sounded very much like...

"Mama...?" Chalia's eyes grew wide and she struggled to sit up, but it felt as though a heavy weight sat in the center of her chest, keeping her naked back pressed flush against the cold stone floor.

Wait...naked?

No wonder it was cold...but...hadn't she been wearing a dress before? Her wedding dress. She was supposed to be getting married. She remembered Valendrian, her father, the priest...her sister being groped by those disgusting humans...and Valora...the other women.

Chalia felt as though she was grasping at threads through a veil of fog that her thoughts seemed unable to pierce.

One Ear cursed softly under his breath. The old man's hand found its way back into the dark river of Chalia's hair and resumed its gentle stroking.

"That isn't your mother, girl." One Ear's voice was soothing, flowing easily from his lips like water over rocks in a stream, but his eyes held a practiced wariness as he peered with narrowed eyes into the living darkness that surrounded them. "That," he murmured, "is a thousand years of hunger with the power of speech."

Somewhere in the all-encompassing blackness, something howled. Chalia watched as One Ear's lips drew back in a vicious snarl, his hand tightening in her hair. She tried again to force her body into an upright position, but the weight continued to press her body into the floor. Even her fingers felt heavy and useless.

Panic raced along her spine as she realized that even the comforting weight of her mother's dagger against her thigh was missing.

A frustrated whimper escaped her.

One Ear looked down at her, his head cocked to one side and a look of confusion on his face as though he was uncertain of just who she was in that moment. Then the old man blinked and visibly shook himself; the befuddled look disappeared so quickly that Chalia wasn't sure it had ever been there to begin with.

"Listen, child...those humans will kill you without a second thought if you give them the chance. You make no bargains today, do you understand me?"

"I don't know what you..."

"No time for that now!" One Ear hissed.

One hand continued to stroke her hair as he touched the gnarled fingers of his other hand to her forehead. The old man stared intently into the darkness and began to murmur softly under his breath. The words, to Chalia's ears, sounded foreign, though she was sure they did not belong to any language she had ever heard spoken aloud before, not even in the busy market district which played host to a constant influx of merchants and traders who hailed from outside of Ferelden's borders.

One Ear's fingers pressed firmly into the space between her eyes, just above the bridge of her nose, and she could feel a pleasant heat beginning to seep into her skin. Her eyes fluttered closed, and suddenly she could no longer feel the cold, heard stone beneath her.

Instead, she felt like she was floating in warm water, the way she used to do when she was a child and her mother would draw a bath for her, heating the water over the fire before pouring it into the fat metal tub. In her mind's eye, she could see it all so clearly...Adaia sitting in the rocking chair next to the bedroom window with a book opened in her hands, reading in the fading evening light while Chalia kicked and splashed about in the tub, until finally she would scrub herself clean and then just...float in the blissfully warm water, pretending that she was a sea elf sunning herself in the shallows of the Waking Sea while the waves rolled in like the softest lullaby. Then, without fail, her mother would gather her, dry her and wrap her in a blanket before tucking her into bed.

And this sensation...this warmth flooding through her body, brought the memory back in vivid detail. One Ear's hands were her mother's hands, soothing away the bruises and the worries of the day, ushering her sweetly into the twilight realm of dreams.


	6. The Coming Storm

_**STANDARD DISCLAIMER: Dragon Age and all of its locations, characters, etc are the intellectual property of Bioware and Electronic Arts. I don't own anything...I just play here.**_

_**Author's Note: **_

_First thing's first...I want to say a huge THANK YOU! to everyone who has reviewed/faved/followed this story. There are A LOT of DA fics out there, and I'm so happy that you've chosen to hang in there with Chalia on her journey. I also know that the re-telling/Blight fic has been done to death, and I hope I can offer something new and interesting._

_Also, I've gotta say how proud I am that I managed to bang out this chapter in time-frame that I promised last week. I think this installment was definitely worth the extra work it took to make it happen. I hope you guys enjoy it._

_Lastly, this week I began a companion piece to this fic...sort of a brief chronicle of Soris/Valora and Chalia/Tobin. So, basically, yay! More backstory! (read as: stuff I didn't want to try to squeeze into this fic and info-dump all over the place.) It's called Light and Flickering, and it'll probably end up somewhere between 5-10 chapters. Consider it a gift to you guys for putting up with my crap. And..._

_Onward!_

* * *

**Chapter Six**

**The Coming Storm**

**"It's not the size of the dog in the fight, it's the size of the fight in the dog."**

**-Mark Twain**

When she came to, it was like surfacing from a pool of dirty water into a stifling womb of darkness. Her eyes, her brain felt murky and clouded, and Chalia bolted up, gasping, her arms flailing as if to throw off some unseen assailant. She could feel the hard floor beneath her, the damp cold surrounding her, seeping through the tight sheath of her wedding dress and into her skin.

Her dress... She drew a deep, shuddering breath into her lungs and ran her hands over her body. She was still clothed and whole, mostly uninjured, though her head throbbed where Vaughn had struck her...and her side ached, most likely from where she had been dumped without ceremony onto the frigid, unyielding stone while still unconscious and unable to brace herself.

Something stirred behind her...beside her. She could hear sobbing.

"Maker keep us...maker protect us..."

The voice was familiar. It belonged to Nola, Tormey the smith's youngest daughter. So, she'd been gathered with the rest of them, then. No wonder...she was pretty enough, if a bit skittish.

"Oh, not this again..." Shianni grumbled nearby. "Nola, will you _please_ shut up!"

"Shianni..." Chalia was taken aback by the sound of her own voice, rising from her throat in a tight, dry rasp.

Suddenly, there were arms fumbling through the dark, circling her neck. "Oh, Chalia...thank goodness you're all right!"

A hand closed on her arm in a gentle squeeze. "We were worried. You've been out for quite awhile." Valora's words quavered with barely restrained panic.

Chalia blinked, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the darkness, but no relief came. "Where are we?"

"Cellar...far as I can tell," said Shianni, her skirts rustling as she pressed herself closer to her sister. "They've locked us in here until that..._bastard_ is ready for us."

"What are they going to do to us?" That voice was also familiar. Jarinda, one of the younger girls from the alienage. Younger even than Shianni. She couldn't have been more than fourteen years-old. Chalia felt her stomach turn at the very idea.

"Nothing good," Chalia mumbled, grasping for her sister's hand. "We have to get out of here..."

Valora let out a trembling, defeated sigh. "The door is locked, Chalia...and we don't have any weapons. Even if we did...those are trained guardsmen. We'd be dead in no time."

No weapons. That wasn't entirely true. Chalia felt the comforting weight of the dagger sheathed against her thigh. She was somewhat surprised that Vaughn's men hadn't confiscated the blade. Of course, alienage elves were banned from owning and carrying weapons, so why would the men have bothered with searching them? Their mistake.

Jarinda scuttled closer on hands and knees, and Chalia could almost feel the younger girl quiver as she curled herself against Shianni's side.

"Maker keep us...Maker protect us..." Nola continued to sob in the corner, rocking back and forth in the darkness.

"Idiot..." Shianni muttered under her breath, wrapping a protective arm around Jarinda's small shoulders and drawing her close.

"She's afraid, Shianni. We all are," Valora gently scolded. "Maybe we should just do what they want. We can go home in the morning...pretend this never happened."

"If we let them do what they want, we won't be going home in the morning...or at all." Chalia hadn't meant to say the words aloud, but felt the heavy truth in them as they tumbled, unbidden, from her lips. In her head, she could hear the cryptic echo of One Ear's voice, his warning.

The silence stretched between the terrified women like a long, black ribbon. Nola's frantic prayers had rapidly degenerated into quiet, sobbing moans.

How much time had passed? Chalia couldn't be certain. Minutes felt like hours as they dragged by...like the dragging of a dead body through dry leaves. Time was running out. They needed a plan...some hope of escape, no matter how miniscule, that they could cling to. Chalia's mind raced, but as far as she could see, there were precious few options.

One wrong move would send them all to an early grave.

Then came the distant sound of heavy footsteps and voices. Male voices...several of them. They laughed and carried on as they drew ever closer to the locked room where the elven women huddled together, trembling in the suffocating darkness.

Chalia's muscles tensed as she heard the lock turn. "Stay alert. If you see an opening, take it."

The door swung inward with a sharp creak of its hinges. Two of the men held torches aloft, and Chalia blinked, holding up a hand to shield her eyes from the sudden, violent flare of light.

"Hello ladies..." One of the men, clad in light leather armor, sauntered into the room. He was armed, though his blade remained sheathed, his hands clasped behind his back. Clearly, he did not view any of the women as a threat. "We're your escorts to Lord Vaughn's little party."

Suddenly, Nola shot to her feet and launched herself toward the man, her arms held out imploringly. "Please...just let us go!"

Without pause, the guard drew his sword and slashed his blade across her throat. Nola's body crumpled to the floor in a heap like a ruined doll. Her last breath gurgled up from her severed windpipe, blood bubbling red and thick from the blossoming wound.

Chalia felt the others convulse in shock and gather themselves tighter against her.

"You...you _killed_ her!" Jarinda cried, pressing a hand to her mouth in terror.

The guardsman grinned, displaying a row of broken teeth. He pulled a kerchief from a pouch at his belt and nonchalantly wiped the gore from his blade.

"Yes, well...that's what happens when you try teaching whores some respect."

Chalia unwound herself from Shianni's embrace and rose to her feet. There were five guards in total if she counted the one holding the torch. She moved forward to place herself between the other women and the group of well-armed and armored humans.

The man who had killed Nola cocked his head and regarded her with a disturbing amount of interest. "Lord Vaughn likes the look of you, sweetheart...wants to save you for last."

The other guards began to fan into the room. One grabbed Shianni's arm, hauled her to her feet as she gave a weak, wordless cry of protest. Another did the same to Valora and Jarinda, neither of whom struggled as they were shoved roughly toward the door like lambs being herded to the slaughter.

Chalia felt a cold lump rise in her throat as the others were led out into the hallway. One of the torch-bearers turned to follow the procession of prisoners, and the press of shadows in the room grew suddenly heavy. She clenched and unclenched her hands, palms itching for the feel of the knife in her hand.

The first guardsman...the murderer...was clearly in charge. Or at least he fancied himself as such. He finished polishing the streaks of Nola's blood from his sword and made a very slow and deliberate show of sheathing his blade.

Chalia met his stare straight on, all of the anger and disgust she felt burning in her narrowed eyes as she watched him advance toward her. A second guard moved to flank her, a length of rope held taught and ready in his gloved hands. The second torch-bearer, who still hoverd in the doorway, shifted his weight uneasily from foot to foot.

"So, Vaughn's boys say you're a little spitfire...all full of piss and vinegar, is that right?"

Chalia said nothing, her eyes flickering back and forth between the two men in the room. Both of the humans large, solid and well-built. If either got their hands on her, she knew she would be done for. She paid particular attention to the man with the rope in his grasp. She wasn't about to be tied up like some sow being dragged off to market.

"Still got a tongue in that mouth of yours, bitch?"

"I think she's just shy, Bran," the rope-man laughed as he circled her, still unsure enough to give her a wide berth.

"Let's see, shall we?" the one called Bran said with a leer as he peeled the gloves from his hands and slipped them into his belt. With a quickness that surprised her, he surged forward and seized a handful of her hair in his fist.

Chalia spat in his face. "Fuck off!"

The man with the torch erupted into a loud fit of laughter from his place by the door. "She's got one hell of a mouth, that one!"

With a rough hand splayed against the back of her neck, Bran forced Chalia to her knees. She gasped in pain as the uneven edges of the stone floor bit into her skin. "That she does...and I've got a use for that filthy little whore mouth of hers, all right."

"Bran...I dunno about this," the guardsman who still held the rope said, sounding suddenly ill-at-ease. "Shouldn't we just tie her up and take her upstairs? Lord Vaughn doesn't like us playing with his toys. You know that..."

"Shit, Wendel...Arl Urien don't pay us enough as it is. Why should that spoiled whelp of his have all the fun?" Bran gave Chalia's hair a rough yank, forcing her head back. She cried out from the sudden pain, tears springing to her eyes. "Besides...he and his boys have plenty of flesh to keep them occupied for the time being. He ain't gonna miss this one just yet."

"Let go of me, you fucking shem pig!" Chalia snarled, raking her fingernails across the backs of his hands.

Bran grabbed the sides of her head with both hands and thrust her back against the wall. Chalia's vision grew bleary, colored orbs swimming through the field of her vision as she struggled to hold on to consciousness. She couldn't afford to slip under now. Odds were good that she'd never wake again, and Shianni and the others needed her to get out of this alive.

One hand still wound into her hair, the guardsman reached for the laces of his breeches with the other. "Now listen, you knife-eared little slut...you be good and do as you're told, or I'll carve you up just like your friend over there, you hear me?"

Chalia risked a quick glance at Nola's corpse sprawled in the center of the room, and her breath hitched in her throat. A dark pool of blood had gathered around the girl's body, her head twisted at a grotesque angle, eyes staring off into the shadows...blank and sightless.

Chalia stopped struggling and lowered her eyes to the floor. Her shoulders sagged. "I hear you..."

Wendel and the torch-carrying guard both chuckled as Bran's hand slipped from Chalia's hair, his fingers trailing down her cheek, across the line of her jaw to her chin, tilting her head back. He'd finished the job of unlacing his breeches, and he smirked triumphantly down at her. "I want you to look at me..." he rasped. "While you do it..."

Chalia could feel her body shaking...with anger and disgust as much as with fear. The other two guards were watching, grinning like wolves in the shuddering dark as they looked on. So, it was now or never. She would show these human wolves that she was no easy prey.

Bran licked his lips as she reached out, his eyes growing dark and vacant with lust as her hand traveled a slow path up the inside of his thigh. As covertly as she could, Chalia wriggled her other hand beneath the hem of her dress and gripped the smooth hilt of her mother's dagger, deftly working the blade free from its sheath. She watched as Bran's eyes slid closed for the split-second she needed as the heel of her hand skimmed over his arousal. And with a growl of pure, animal ferocity, Chalia drew the dagger from under her skirt and plunged the blade into the guardsman's groin, twisting the knife upward and sideways as she threw all of her weight into the strike and yanked her weapon free. Blood fountained from the gaping wound, splattering and soaking the front of her dress.

Bran screamed and kicked out at her, but she fell back and rolled away as the other man, Wendel, dropped the length of rope to the floor and drew his blade, lunging for her. She dodged his clumsy strike and came up on one knee, hooking her opposite foot behind his ankle and yanking him far enough off balance that he slipped on Bran's blood and tumbled on top of his comrade, knocking the other man to the floor where he continued to writhe in pain.

Chalia vaulted to her feet, holding her dagger at the ready. The man holding the torch waffled just long enough for Chalia to charge him and slit his throat with one clean slash before he had time to draw his weapon. The guard dropped, carrying the torch to the floor with him. It rolled out into the shadowed corridor, struck the wall and flickered out. The darkness rushed in, overwhelming Chalia's senses.

She could hear the other two guardsmen cursing and stumbling to their feet. Bran gasped for breath, whimpering pathetically. He called her every nasty slur she'd ever heard in her lifetime...some she hadn't. Wendel kept telling him to shut up...that he'd known this was all a bad idea...they should have just bound her and taken her to Vaughn's room.

"I told you! That's what you get for thinking with your prick, you dumb shit!"

It would have been hilarious if the situation weren't so dire.

Chalia knew she had to move...and now. She felt her way along the wall, dagger clutched like a holy talisman in one hand. A cool breeze ruffled her hair, and since she was out of clever ideas, she followed it. Hadn't her mother told her that once? To follow the flow of air if she ever found herself lost below ground?

The guards weren't far behind. She could hear them arguing with one another, could hear the injured man's labored breathing, his unsteady footsteps. Knowing that he was in no small amount of pain gave her some satisfaction, at least. Now she just had to get out of this place...find the others. They were counting on her.

Her toes struck something solid in the darkness, and she pitched forward onto...stairs. Stairs leading up. So far, her luck was holding. Thank the Maker for that.

Leaning forward on her hands, she crawled her way up the steps. The stairwell spiraled its way up out of the damp cold, and suddenly there was a flicker of golden light just ahead. She could no longer hear the guardsmen, and the breath she hadn't even realized she'd been holding slipped out between her lips all in a rush.

The stairs ended abruptly, and she fumbled her way through an arched doorway into a wide hallway lit with magelights...glass globes perpetually lit by magic, products of the Circle Tower of Ferelden...rare...and expensive. It didn't come as much of a surprise to Chalia to find such a thing in the Arl of Denerim's estate.

The hallway was empty, but Chalia kept her dagger at the ready, just in case.

As she passed by a window, she chanced a peek outside. It was dark. Valora had not exaggerated when she'd told Chalia that she'd been unconscious for quite awhile. Hours, from the looks of it. Her father and Soris were probably frantic with worry. And her niece and nephews who had seen their mother dragged off...what of them?

The desserted courtyard and garden were lit with the same magic lamps as the inside of the house, and a bush of pink roses spilled onto the garden path, the bright flowers half-bloomed in the shivering golden light. From the window, the world appeared deceptively serene.

But a storm was blowing in from the east, and Chalia watched as lightning arced across the sky. Thunder rumbled in the distance, and she could feel the vibrations all the way down to the soles of her feet. Rain pelted the glass, fat water droplets melding together and streaking across the surface of the window, blurring the reflection of her blood-soaked dress and the dark purplish bruise that had gathered around one of her eyes.

Everything about this world, at this moment, was wrong.

"Admiring the view, sweetheart?" The reflection in the window glass mocked her further as guardsman Bran's face rose up behind her.

Before she could turn around, she was disarmed, Wendel's blade outsting the dagger from her grasp as Bran shoved her from behind and sent her crashing head-first against the window pane. Bright blood spurted from her nose as she collapsed in a heap on the floor. Bran's knee dug hard into her backside as he wrenched her arms behind her. A pained shriek was torn from her throat as her shoulder popped loudly out of joint.

"This could have gone a lot smoother, you know?" Wendel grunted as he worked to bind Chalia's wrists together while she bucked and writhed and struggled, despite the pain.

"I'm the one who almost had my cock cut clean off. You could be a little more sympathetic..."

"Huh...not like you ever use the fucking thing." Wendel reached over and cuffed Chalia on the side of the head. "Hold still, bitch. You're gonna pay for killing one of ours. Just wait till Master Vaughn gets ahold of you."

"Umm...hello?" A new voice...one Chalia would have recognized anywhere...even at the very bottom of the depths of her dispair when she'd abandoned all hope of getting out of this mess alive.

_Soris!...SorisSorisSoris..._

"What the hell is this, then?" Bran barked with laughter, his grip on Chalia's arms loosening just enough that she was able to slip one of her wrists free from Wendel's half-finished bindings. "Another elf with a sword?"

"He looks lost, don't he, Bran?" Wendel echoed Bran's laughter and stood, sliding his blade from its sheath.

Chalia felt the weight on her back disappear as Bran also stood and drew his weapon. Her shoulder burned as she scrabbled to her feet and finished untying the messy knots to free herself completely.

"Oh I'm not lost," Soris said with a smirk as he managed to catch her eye. "In fact, I just found exactly what I was looking for. Heads up, sis!" With a hard flick of his wrist, Soris sent the longsword skittering across the floor and between the legs of the two humans where it came to rest right at Chalia's feet. Without hesitation, she bent forward and scooped up the weapon. It had been years since she'd held a sword, and though she wasn't used to the extra weight, the blade was expertly balanced and felt good in her hand. It felt right. In fact, in that moment, it felt damn near holy.

Her shoulder throbbed, screaming with the pressure as Bran spun and met her blade with his own. His swings were heavy, practiced and merciless. He had all the strength of any well-trained human man. But what Chalia lacked in strength, she more than made up for with speed. She dodged and feinted and spun out of his reach until Bran was gasping, practically doubled over with the effort. Their earlier encounter in the cellar had taken much from him already. His wound still oozed blood, and his movements were becoming sloppy. And finally, Chalia wrested the weapon from his grasp, his sword striking the floor and scuttling off into a shadowed corner. With a lightning-quick turn of her blade, Chalia cleanly took off his head.

Her breath escaping her in exhausted pants, Chalia turned to see Wendel's body crumpled on the floor, his blood soaking the rug that lay beneath him, a single crossbow bolt lodged in the center of his forehead. Soris stood over him, crossbow slung over his shoulder, his brow furrowed with...what? Anger, sure, but...something else that Chalia couldn't identify. Sorrow, maybe...Soris wasn't the type to kill anyone in cold blood.

Soris wasn't even the type to kill spiders.

"Soris..." The tears were spilling hot from Chalia's eyes before she even realized she felt like crying. She ran to her brother and flung her arms around him, burying her face in his shoulder. She felt his hands in her hair, along the back of her neck and her shoulders, shushing her as she winced from the pain and sobbed against his chest. Her brother clutched at her in a way that was almost too desperate...in a way that quietly proclaimed that he hadn't thought he'd ever see her again...or at least not alive, anyway.

She hadn't expected to see him again, either. In fact, she hadn't expected anyone to come after her and the others. She'd assumed they were on their own. That Soris had been the one to come, to risk his life...there were no words.

"Thank the Maker you're all right. I thought..." Soris trailed off, any words that would have followed being too awful to speak aloud.

Chalia shook her head. "How...how are you even here?"

"That human...that Duncan...the Grey Warden." Chalia's eyes widened in sudden realization. The dark-skinned man in the armor. A Grey Warden? But why... "He said he wasn't able to come with us...something about not being able to interfere...but he gave us the weapons...the sword and crossbow, told us to do what needed doing."

"Wait...you said 'us.'"

Soris nodded. "Nelaros about lost it on everyone in the crowd...Valendrian included...who wanted to wait around and 'hope for the best.' He's a savage fighter...you wouldn't know it to look at him. But...we had a hell of a time getting in. This place is more heavily guarded than Fort Drakon, I'd swear it. Nelaros is here...guarding the end of the hall. We should get moving...find Va..." He paused, drew a shuddering breath. "Find the others. Do you know where they are?"

_Nelaros is here... He came after me?_

Chalia worried at her lip. "I...I'm not sure, but if we find that disgusting human...that Vaughn, we'll find them. We should hurry, though. There's no telling what..." One look at Soris's face made her think better of finishing that thought. It was plain as day that he was afraid for Valora. Shianni, too, she was sure...but there was no denying that Soris loved his wife, that her life was worth risking his own.

It was sobering to think of it...how far those two had come.

She was still reeling from knowing that Nelaros had fought his way in here. Whether it was entirely because of her, she didn't know. They'd known one another for a matter of hours. He couldn't possibly love her. She certainly didn't love him.

She liked him, of course. She even respected him...moreso now, knowing that he'd stood up to the Hahren and all the others who'd wanted to stand idly by and wait to see what happened. There was no doubt in her mind that he was worthy of respect. But love? That was...something entirely different...foreign.

She thought she'd loved Tobin once upon a time. But, looking at her brother...at the unwavering certainty on his face...she knew that she would never have volunteered to die for Tobin.

She wondered if she'd ever feel that way about anyone...the way that her brother felt about his wife.

She doubted it. She really did.


	7. The Long Bag She Drags Behind Her

_**STANDARD DISCLAIMER: Dragon Age and all of its locations, characters, etc are the intellectual property of Bioware and Electronic Arts. I don't own anything...I just play here.**_

_**Author's Note: **_

_I really need to start off by saying another huge THANK YOU to all of my readers! You guys have been so sweet and supportive and full of awesome advice and knowledge and kind words that hearing what you guys have to say always puts a huge smile on my face and makes me fall in love with the story and characters all over again!_

_Just so you know, I am really looking forward to getting my girl to Ostagar._

_**A quick note about triggers...**_

_I'm not ready to change the rating on this story just yet, but I will warn those who are particularly sensitive to the subject matter that there is a rape scene in this chapter. I don't feel that it is terribly graphic or disgusting, but that doesn't mean that everyone else will feel the same way I do. We all have our individual threshholds, after all._

_Onward!_

* * *

**Chapter 7**

**The Long Bag She Drags Behind Her**

"**Poet Robert Bly describes the shadow as a long bag we drag behind us. "We spend our lives until we're twenty deciding what parts of ourselves to put in the bag..." the civilizing process; "and we spend the rest of our lives trying to get them out again," the humanizing, integrating, holistic process. Disowned traits are rattling in an overcrowded closet called the Shadow. **

**_-JeanneE Hand-Boniakowski_**** from the essay "Shadow"**

**'Metaphoria' ****June 1995, Volume 2 Nr 10, Issue 22**

"It's this door here. I'm sure of it," Soris whispered as they crept along in the dim light, backs to the wall, weapons at the ready. At the end of the hallway was an arched, wooden door. Beyond it, Chalia could hear yelling. Beside her, Soris steadied the crossbow against his shoulder as her hand descended on the latch.

The door swung inward. Two guards towered over Nelaros as he lay prone before them, both the rug and his formal tunic growing darker by the second with blood. He was gasping, his breaths escaping in short, uneven bursts.

"You've killed him!" The words burst from Chalia's lips before she realized she'd spoken.

The guard whose sword dripped scarlet with blood and gristle snapped to attention, bristling visibly as he took in the sight of the two young elves standing before him. "It's a bloody infestation is what it is! I told Lord Vaughn..."

"You didn't tell Lord Vaughn shit," the other guard barked as he shifted his grip on his own blade, ready for a fight. "Let's just handle these ones here and throw their meat to the dogs." He grinned.

There was a loud click as Soris freed a bolt from the crossbow, the recoil throwing his wiry body backward into the edge of the door. But the bolt found a home, planting itself firmly in the thick neck of the guardsman with the bloody sword who screamed soundlessly, his dominant hand losing its grip on his sword and flying up to his neck to claw vainly at the bolt.

Chalia's lip curled in a snarl as the man who had spoken of feeding them to the dogs charged her. His initial attack was weak. She supposed he didn't think much of a young elven woman with a sword, but that was his mistake. She dodged his blade, feinted and spun until she was behind him, burying her sword in his side, the spot open and vulnerable, uncovered as it was by his leather cuirass. The shudder that coursed through his body was violent. He dropped to his knees, and his weapon fell from his nerveless fingers and clattered to the floor. She heard him mutter something about the Maker, probably a prayer, a cry for help or mercy, but Chalia wasn't interested in mercy. She pushed her blade farther into his body until he spasmed again and slumped forward.

Chalia braced her foot on the man's back and, with a loud grunt, withdrew her weapon from his lifeless form. The other man still writhed nearby, his breath little more than a pained rattle trapped in the tunnel of his throat. She bent down and grasped the crossbow bolt. With a hard yank, she freed the bolt from the man's neck and watched with a strange feeling of detachment as his eyes rolled back in his head.

She wasn't taking any chances. Not now. With one clean slice, she halted his breathing for good.

For a moment, she just stared down at the dead man as his blood gushed down over his neck, seeped into the cracks of his well-worn armor and pooled on the floor. Before today, she had never killed anyone. Today, she had ended the lives of three humans. Briefly, she found herself wondering if these men had families...wives and children, mouths to feed. After all, she assumed that being a guardsman in the estate of an Arl was a well-paying, respectable job. And then she remembered being forced onto her knees in the cellar as that piece of filth...that Bran...twisted her hair around his fist, unlaced himself in front of her and tried to get her to...ugh. No. She didn't care...she didn't care...

And what of Shianni, Valora, Jarinda and...

_Oh, Maker, no..._

"Nelaros?" There was a note of hysteria creeping into Soris's voice as he cradled Nelaro's head between his hands. There was a line of blood dribbling down the blond elf's chin. His chest rose and fell in a stilted rhythm, and he erupted into a violent coughing fit as Chalia knelt beside him, his blood soaking into her skirt.

Without thinking, she reached out a hand and placed it on his chest, on the spot where his tunic flared open and unlaced, the rest of it sticky and wet with the life flowing out of him. With a soft grunt of effort, he managed to lift his arm and shift his position just enough to cover her hand with his, though his eyes remained closed.

The tip of Nelaros's tongue darted out to wet his lips, and even through all of the blood and the deep lines of pain scrawled across his face, he managed a small smile. "I think I would have really enjoyed having the chance to make you happy...Chalia."

Chalia felt something inside of her shatter at his whispered words, and the tears bubbled and burned behind her eyes, at the back of her throat. The tips of her ears felt hot, almost feverish.

This was her wedding day. As much as she had avoided it, had argued and raged and dissented, this was supposed to be hers...all hers, and how dare some human scum come into her life and take all of her choices away? This wasn't how it was supposed to be. She was supposed to be a wife and a mother. Her father's face swam into the racing current of her thoughts. He wanted her home and safe with a good man...with Nelaros...with the seed of another perfect grandchild growing in her. Suddenly, she felt hopeless...frantic. "Shh...Nelaros, don't...you're not... We can still get you out of here...get you to a healer. We can fix this."

Nelaros grunted again and swallowed hard, his breath hitching.

Beneath the fading heat of his hand, Chalia's fingers curled under the saturated fabric of his tunic. Something rested there, something solid and golden on a delicate chain that circled his neck. A ring...a thin, finely made golden ring etched with swirling leaves...Vhenadhal leaves. She rolled the tiny golden band between her detail was remarkable.

"Your ring..." Nelaros mumbled, lips barely moving. "I made it...before I left...Highever. It's not...my best work. I rushed...so I could have it...for the wedding. I...was going to make you another one...something better. I'm...sorry."

"No," Chalia said with a shake of her head, no longer able to hold her tears at bay. "It's beautiful," she sniffled. "It couldn't be more perfect. I mean it."

Soris, though his shoulders were slumped and his hands trembled as they supported Nelaros's neck, had the grace to look away as the ill-fated bride and groom shared what small amount time they had left together. As Nelaros struggled to sit up, he allowed Chalia to move in, supporting his weight as she wound an arm around his body, his head resting against her chest just beneath her collarbone.

Chalia watched her brother stand and move toward the door, seemingly eager to be away from them, his eyes averted. Soris leaned against the wall, his gaze trained on the hallway. He chewed his lower lip, a nervous habit left over from a childhood full of nervous habits, and his leg vibrated with clear unease. He was restless. He wanted to move. But he allowed Chalia and Nelaros their space, and Chalia was glad of that. She knew that Nelaros was not going to make it. She _knew_ it. She just didn't want it to happen this way.

They should have been back in the alienage celebrating their union with loved ones. They should have been feasting and toasting and being made to share uncomfortable kisses with one another every time some grinning well-wishers clinked their glasses together. Soris was supposed to be putting his children to bed and twirling his wife around the kitchen, laughing like a fool. Shianni should have been drunk witless right about now, spilling wine down the front of her new dress.

This...this was all wrong...

_Before the day is over, that pretty white dress of yours will be covered in blood..._

One-Ear's words came back to her, unbidden, and with a startling clarity that made her breath catch painfully in her throat.

Nelaros shifted slightly in her arms and tilted his face up to her. His eyes opened. They roamed her face, glassy and feverish with pain, but he was still very much present, still very much alive in her arms, though his flesh was rapidly losing its heat and he was beginning to quake as the cold seeped into him bit by bit.

"You'll...make it...out of here. You _will_," he rasped. There was a confidence, a sureity that Chalia herself didn't quite feel. But she held her insecurities at bay and simply looked at him, forcing herself to memorize the face of this man who had risked his life for her...for what he knew in his heart was good and right when no one else had thought to do anything.

He was quiet for a moment, and then, "Take the ring. Please...?" His voice was barely a whisper, soft and beggary, she had to lean in closer to hear him. "I...want you...to have it. Something to...remember me by." He smiled then, wincing with the pain it caused him, but the smile was genuine.

The light was quickly fading from his eyes, and Chalia wasn't sure what words to offer him. So, instead of words, she offered him what had been denied him...had been denied the both of them. She leaned in and touched her lips to his, gently at first and then with the fervor that rose from all of the desperation she felt and with what fleeting strength he still possessed, Nelaros responded to her in kind, his lips cool and dry against her own, his trembling hand traveling like a silken scarf across her cheek and the curve of her delicately pointed ear. The kiss held all of the promises of a future that would never be, the marriage and the children and the life that would never be. It lasted forever...and not long enough. Nelaros's hand slipped from her face, his body going limp in her embrace. His head lolled back, eyes half-open, but vacant...empty. Just like that, he was gone.

Chalia felt a sob rising in her chest but fought it down as her trembling hands worked to undo the chain at his neck. After a few fruitless attempts, she succeeded and eased his lifeless body to the rug as gently as she could. With a sweep of her hand, she closed his eyes and forced herself to stand and gather her composure. Nelaros had died trying to rescue her, and she wasn't about to allow herself to fall apart like some scared little girl and ruin the chance of escape.

She and Soris had to find the others and get away from here.

With one last glance at the body of her betrothed, Chalia fastened the gold chain that held what should have been her wedding ring around her neck. The golden circlet glittered at her throat in the dim light like a holy talisman. She ran her fingers over the delicate etchings in the band and offered a quick prayer to the Maker on behalf of Nelaros's spirit. She had never been the religious sort, but it seemed like a proper thing to do.

With a great effort, she banished the tears threatening to spill to some dark place deep inside herself and steeled her resolve as best she could. Her brother was watching her from the corner of his eye, and he pushed himself away from the wall, adjusting the crossbow over his shoulder.

"Are you okay?" he asked, his voice rough and heavy with a grief he visibly struggled to conceal.

She wasn't, but that didn't matter at the moment and she didn't feel like discussing it...any of it...so she nodded.

"Let's just go..."

* * *

Chalia was convinced that Arl Urien's estate was nothing but a sprawling maze of deadends and locked doors. And, to make matters worse, the place was crawling with guards. She and Soris had had to fight their way through rooms of humans who hurled insults at them at every turn and seemed to find a perverse amount of joy in the possibility of killing them.

Soris hadn't wanted to fight anymore. The idea of killing anything...anyone...even humans unnerved him to no end, and Chalia had thought to pacify her brother by offering some of the Arl's men a chance to leave quietly and pretend that they had never seen the two unfamiliar, bloodied elves sneaking about, but none of them had taken the offer, and she had grown tired of trying. These were men who would have probably spit on her in the streets...who would think precisely nothing of using her for sport and then slitting her throat afterward.

By the time they had made their way past the dining hall and up another set of stairs to the upper floor, there was not a white spot of fabric left to be seen on Chalia's wedding dress. Her bare arms and her face were streaked with blood, like war paint. Even her hair was soaked as though she had been caught in the rain for hours. All around her, blood blood blood...the walls were covered with it...it dripped from the ceilings after each battle, had wriggled beneath her fingernails, trickled into her mouth, dried in the creases of her lips...that bright, pulsing scarlet...her vision was clouded with it. She felt as if her sanity had begun to slip...and she worried for Soris.

Her brother had managed to stay cleaner than she had, staying back from the inevitable frays and using his crossbow to take down the guards from a distance, but he was getting jumpy...twitchy...and not in a cautious sort of way. Chalia was afraid that all of this death and blood was going to drive her brother mad. He wasn't the violent sort. When their mother had tried teaching Soris to fight, he had waffled time and again. It was a shame, too, because Soris was a natural talent with a bow...any sort of ranged weapon, really. He had a great eye and near-perfect aim...every single time. Chalia remembered how jealous she had been as Adaia had praised her son up one side and down the other, but it hadn't made any difference. Soris had no interest in fighting or in weapons or warfare...he just wanted to stay home, to do his chores, to read or play quietly somewhere. There was not a wild bone is Soris's body.

But Chalia could honestly say now that she was glad of Soris's natural talent. No one who got one of those wicked bolts through the eye was getting back up again.

She put a hand on his arm. "Soris...we'll find them."

Startled by her touch, he pushed her away from him, the crossbow finding its way into the hollow below his shoulder. Chalia counted heartbeats as her brother's eyes swept over her as if he was trying to remember who she was, and she let out a breath when he visibly relaxed with a shake of his head. He wiped at his eyes with one hand. "I know. I _know_. I'm sorry."

"It's fine..." she said. "Just try not to shoot me, okay?"

Soris didn't answer, but one corner of his mouth raised in a smirk, and that was enough. For now, his mind was his own again.

A muffled scream echoed down the corridor. Then another, followed by a string of frantic pleas, though the actual words themselves were distorted by the thickness of the walls.

Chalia and Soris exchanged glances. They knew that voice, even if the terror that colored it was unfamiliar. Shianni.

And they ran, following the sound of that panicked voice and the cruel laughter that filled in the spaces between screams to the end of a curiously unlit hallway, the mage lights having been deactivated for whatever reason. The hall lay empty before them, no guards patrolling this upper sanctuary... Apparently, spoiled little Lord Vaughn harbored no thoughts about crazed elven vigilantes crashing his parties.

Chalia tested the latch on the door. Unlocked. How full of himself this human lordling was...

"Just open it..." Soris growled, surprising his sister with the forceful anger that colored his words. But this was good. He'd found his focus again.

Chalia kicked open the door...and her guts twisted inside at the scene before her.

Shianni had been stripped naked to the waist, her dress in tatters around her, skirt hiked up over her hips, and laid out on a pile of blankets that had been piled haphazardly on the floor in front of the fire. Her face and torso were a mass of bruises, one of her eyes purple and swollen with blood. Her breasts bore a host of ugly welts and what appeared to be bite marks. Her arms were being held over her head by one of the humans who had accompanied Vaughn to the alienage earlier in the day, the pale fat one who had looked at Chalia as though she was something he had stepped in.

Vaughn was braced over her sister's body, one hand at her throat, choking her as he violated her. The other three men wore nothing but their small clothes. They hooted and hollered in a frenzy of male posturing, all of them ready to take their turns with the elven girl who writhed beneath Vaughn, her head thrashing from side to side as she coughed and spluttered and struggled to break free. The blankets beneath her hips and the insides of her thighs were stained bright red with her maiden's blood.

"Get your fucking hands off my sister!" Chalia screamed, the sword in her hand vibrating from the sheer force of her clenched fist around the pommel.

The men all swiveled their heads toward the door, the shock of being interrupted plain upon their faces. Vaughn slid from between Shianni's thighs, not bothering to cover himself at all as he wiped the blood away from his groin with one of the blankets and stood. He grinned, but said nothing as he made a show of stepping into his trousers and fastening the belt at his waist.

"Well, what have we here, boys? If it isn't the beautiful little bride...so eager, are we?"

Vaughn's lackeys chuckled nervously, the fat one still gripping Shianni's arms as she kicked and thrashed about. One of the other men grabbed her legs to keep her still, and she suddenly crumpled as though all of the air had left the abused husk of her body.

"Oh, I'm going to _enjoy_ killing you..." Chalia ground out, her teeth clenched in red hot anger.

One of Vaughn's cronies snorted. "Just kill them both, Vaughn...no one's going to mourn another couple of elves."

"Don't be an idiot!" Vaughn snapped. "These two are covered with enough blood to fill a tub! Don't you know what that means?"

Chalia opened her mouth, a sharp retort already on the tip of her tongue, but Soris beat her to it.

"It means we carved a path through your guards, so no one's left here to come save your worthless ass..." Soris's words were soft, his tone even and low, dangerous and deliberate and full of venom. The crossbow was raised and ready, the mechanism held ready to fire, but his head was canted to the side, his eyes lowered and shut tight against the sight of his littlest sister's violation. He looked as though he was trying not to retch, his throat working.

"Listen, knife ears...we all know that this could go very, very badly for you. All of you. My father is the Arl of Denerim." Vaughn's grin was lazy and confident...the grin of the rich and powerful and priviledged, the grin of a man who used to getting what he wanted. "You kill me, and I can promise you that by morning, the streets of your precious alienage are going to run red with elven blood."

Chalia faltered, her confidence suddenly rattled. He was right. Maker damn it all...he was right. And, what was worse, he knew he was right. He could have them all killed. Her whole family. Her friends. The Vhenadahl burned to the ground, cut up for kindling. Everyone she cared about...everything that had ever meant anything to her. He could take it all away with a snap of his fingers. And, really, what power did she have to stop him?

"Now, obviously, you know how to use those weapons you're carrying...good for you, by the way... You and I could fight...and you may even manage to kill me...but I'd rather we settled this civilly, so I'm going to propose a little deal..." Vaughn paused, cracking his knuckles as he relished in the power he held over those in the room. "A hundred gold sovereigns, and you promise to leave Denerim tonight and never return...and everything goes back to normal. I'll forget this little incident ever happened. As for all of the...eh hem..._casualties_...I'll tell my father and the city whatever lies I need to tell in order to placate them. You live happily ever after, far far away from my city, and I clean up your mess. Agreed?"

Chalia spared a glance at her brother. He still stood with his eyes lowered, though they were no longer closed...only half-lidded. His jaw was clenched, his finger idly stroking the crossbow's trigger. He wanted to fight, she could see it in the tenseness of his muscles, but he was leaving it up to her.

_Damn him..._

He'd spoken up before. Why didn't he say something...anything...now? He was trusting her to make the right decision, just as he had ever since they were two lost little children hiding from their mother's murderers at the edge of the woods along the road to Highever...hitching a ride back home with a merchant caravan bound for Denerim.

Finally, she found her voice. "What about the women?"

Vaughn threw his head back with a laugh. "The woman stay here with me tonight and go home in the morning, slightly worse for wear, perhaps...but alive. You have my word on that."

His word...was he serious? What value could the word of some corrupt human lordling possibly hold for her?

_...those humans will kill you without a second thought if you give them the chance...you make no bargains today..._

Again, One-Ear's voice pushed its way into her thoughts, his words a litany that broke the spell of doubt that she had allowed to overtake her long enough for Vaughn to shake her confidence. This was wrong. All of it. And if she did nothing, then evil, powerful men like Vaughn would continue doing the evil things they always had to anyone they considered beneath them...to the people she loved...to _her people_.

Chalia heard her sister whimper. It was a sound of hopeless resignation...of defeat. Her heart broke. And she saw red.

She shook her head. "No deal."

"Very well," Vaughn sneered, reaching for an ornate sword that hung over the mantle. "Have it your way..."

As Chalia andVaughn's blades clashed, Vaughn's collection of lackeys scattered like rats, abandoning Shianni who drew her knees up and curled herself into a ball amidst the tangled mass of blankets, sobbing.

Soris, as though he too had been caught up in the web of some paralyzing enchantment, seemed to come back to himself in that moment. He raised his weapon and began to fire, his bolts hitting their marks one by one, lodging easily in exposed flesh of each of the cowardly men. The room, spartan in its design, was not furnished for daily usage. There was nothing to hide behind. The lordlings dropped like sacks of grain and did not get back up.

Vaughn let out a growl as he continued to charge at Chalia, keeping her on the offensive. He was beginning to sweat and seemed surprised and shaken by the deaths of his comrades. He didn't seem quite so sure of himself anymore, but that didn't stop him from delivering a worthy fight.

Chalia was out of breath by the time Soris had finished dispatching the others. Vaughn was a practiced swordsman...and strong. His attacks were punishing, brutal...and lightning quick. Chalia tried several times to get at his back, and each time was thwarted.

From the corner of her eye, she watched as Soris struggled to load another bolt into the crossbow, but the mechanism was jammed. His eyes grew wide with wild panic as he watched his sister gasp for breath as she fought on, her steps faltering under the weight of Vaughn's cruel blows.

Chalia could feel her movements beginning to grow clumsy as fatigue set in. Vaughn feinted to her right and she fell for it, moving to block him as his blade swept by her in a clean arc and bit into the skin just below her ribs.A sharp hiss of pain escaped her, and she managed to jump back just in time to keep from having her guts spilled across the floor.

She edged back, a hand pressed to her wound. Maker's balls, it stung! She'd never felt anything quite like it...not since she'd sliced open her hand years ago while chopping vegetables for dinner one night. But the vegetables hadn't been trying to disembowel her, either.

Vaughn charged her, his sword raised high over his head as though he would slice her in two. She fell to one knee and brought her weapon up at the last possible second with both hands to deflect his blow. Both arms felt numb from the shock of the force he brought down upon her, and she shuddered with the effort of holding herself upright, but Vaughn's momentum sent him tumbling over top of her, and he sprawled onto the floor at her back, his sword clattering loudly as it slid into the wall.

Vaughn dove for his blade, but Soris got there first, kicking the sword away into a corner. The lordling rolled onto his back and made an effort to stand, but Chalia planted a sharp kick in the center of his naked chest and sent him sprawling backwards. She settled the point of her blade at his throat and stood over him, her face etched with dark lines of rage.

Vaughn's eyes grew wide as he started up at her, amazed at the jarring reality of his own defeat as if not quite sure how he had allowed any of it to happen. He held up a hand, voice quaking audibly as he spoke. "You don't want to do this..."

Chalia felt the wings of something very dark stir inside of her as she smiled cruelly down on the human who sat trembling before her like a man whose neck had just been fitted with the rapidly tightening noose of his own making.

With both hands clenched firmly on the hilt of her sword, she raised her weapon chest-high and caned her head for a moment as though studying some lesser creature she had just discovered in the darkest, grimiest cave she had ever had the displeasure to explore.

"Oh, but I do..."

And with that, she plunged her sword into Vaughn's heart, relishing the sight of his eyes bulging, the blood trickling from the corner of his mouth.

For a moment, she stood with her blade still buried in the human's chest, her breath leaping from her lips in excited little pants...but as she slid the blade from Vaughn's corpse, the cold realization of what she had just done came rushing in to drown out any of the pleasure she had felt at watching her sister's rapist expire on her blade.

_I killed him. I killed the son of the Arl of Denerim..._

Chalia let the sword fall from her grasp and it dropped with a solid _thunk_ onto Vaughn's motionless legs.

_What have I done...what have I done...what have I done..._

"Chalia...?" Soris's voice was soft and tentative. "You should...go to her. I...I can't..."

Chalia nodded. "Go find Valora," she said, knowing that's what he wanted...what he _needed_ to hear her say, to know that it was okay for him to want nothing more than to go to his wife.

Pushing aside her rising apprehension, Chalia made herself go to where Shianni lay, still curled on her side and weeping quietly. She knelt next to her sister and placed a hand on her arm.

"Shianni...? Shianni...it's okay...it's me, honey," she soothed.

The weeping sounds stopped, but her sister didn't answer, didn't turn to look at her.

Chalia let some of the anger she still felt burning inside of her find its way into her words as she spoke. "They can't hurt you anymore. Soris and I killed them all. Like dogs."

At last, Shianni turned to face her, her eyes red-rimmed, face streaked with tears. Her flushed complexion made the severity of her bruises even more apparent. When she opened her mouth to speak, Chalia noticed that she was missing a front tooth.

"You...really killed them?" She looked around, brow furrowed in confusion. "Where is Soris?"

Chalia gathered her sister into her arms and rubbed her back in a slow, soothing motion. "Shh...he went to find Valora and Jarinda...he'll be back. I promise."

Shianni started to sob again, her shoulders shaking. "He saw, didn't he? He knows what they did to me..."

"It's not your fault, Shianni..."

"How can I...how can I go back home and face everyone?" Suddenly, she sat up in Chalia's arms, her fingers digging into her sister's shoulders. "Please don't tell the others...or...or Papa what happened...please!" she pleaded, her eyes wild with the sheer depth of her panic.

"I won't..." Chalia gently stroked her fingers through her sister's tangled red locks. "I promise...I won't."

There was a knock at the doorway, and Chalia heard Soris clear his throat. "I found them," he said. "We should go. As soon as possible."

"Just a minute..." Chalia assured him. He nodded and faded back into hallway, back into the thick shadows that dwelled there in that other world beyond the room where their little Shianni's innocence had been shattered.

Chalia sat quietly, alone with her thoughts, as Shianni went through the motions of cleaning and dressing herself as best she could. The dress had been ripped to shreds and rendered unwearable, and so Chalia had asked Soris to lend Shianni his shirt, a suggestion he readily agreed to.

Both Valora and Jarinda had been roughed up a bit, but neither of them had been hurt. Unlike Shianni.

Chalia was careful not to stare as her sister wiped the blood from between her legs, as she tended to her cuts and bruises, running her hands along the smooth plains of her arms and legs as though to assure herself that her body still existed, that it was still, in fact, hers. There were shadows in her eyes, shadows of things that only existed in the dark place inside of her where everything that had no place in the business of every day life got packed away.

Her sister didn't deserve to carry around a patch of darkness like that in her soul.

Chalia knew that place well. She had one of her own. She'd filled hers with visions of men standing over her mother's dead body, shaking what baubles and coins they could from her pockets, kicking her corpse over the edge of the cliff and into the arms of the sea. Tobin lived there, also, with his boyish good looks, his golden charms and silver tongue, his mouth on hers in the dark bedroom, his hands on her body in places she'd never allowed another man to touch...his leaving. Nelaros dying in her arms only hours before. It seemed like a lifetime ago. Those humans she'd killed. The pleasure she'd taken in the rattle of Vaughn's last breath as it escaped his ugly mouth. It was all in there...somewhere. That place she would never allow anyone to see. Not her brother or Shianni...not her father...no one. It was hers. All hers. As hard as it could be at times, she managed her burden just fine.

She didn't need anyone to help her carry it.


End file.
